


The Storm Prince

by witlessmaester



Series: The Storm Prince [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Other, Pre-Canon, southron ambitions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-01-05 21:08:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 48,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21215102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witlessmaester/pseuds/witlessmaester
Summary: "The night of our wedding feast, the first time we shared a bed, he called me by your sister's name. He was on top of me,inme, stinking of wine, and he whisperedLyanna." AGOT, Eddard XIIRobert managed to get one thing right that night, and Cersei decides against aborting the child. Harry Potter is reborn as Steffon Baratheon, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> This has been bouncing around in my head for a few weeks now, and I needed to get it down on paper. What happens in King's Landing when Joffrey is not the eldest prince? How does Harry Potter change the game? How does it change him?
> 
> It will only be three chapters, starting from the birth of Steffon to the beginning of A Game of Thrones. Almost everything will be book canon, though there might be some show influences.

The clearing was a bit further than he had expected but it would not be long before they realized he had come. His steps crunched along the forest floor but Harry barely paid attention to that. He had been groomed for this, to walk this path to what lay at the end, and as the ghosts of his past walked alongside him he left behind the last shreds of the boy he had been.

Harry Potter had done what was expected of him, to his detriment. The last gift he would grant this world would be his death, a sacrifice to allow them to perhaps win their freedom. 

His parents faded slowly, the stone having been dropped somewhere behind him, and Harry walked into his final confrontation with Voldemort alone, as it was always meant to be.

“Harry Potter,” the red-eyed monster hissed. “The Boy-Who-Lived, come to die!” 

Harry did not rise to the bait. Merely waited for the curse to strike him down. Black surrounded his vision, scores of Death Eaters eagerly awaiting the death of the Chosen One. How they would rejoice at his defeat. 

There was momentary silence, the forest holding its breath as green locked onto red. His entire life had been shaped by the actions of a fearful Dark Lord, terrified of someone breaking his power.

Voldemort raised his wand, the ridges familiar from the many years he had seen it in another man’s hands.

“Goodbye, Harry Potter.”

Mouth twisting, “Tom,” he replied with a short nod.

Red eyes flashed in anger before calling out, “Avada Kedavra!”

The green light raced towards him. Voldemort had wrought so much death in his time, so many lives lost to the curling green of death. Green as the eyes the young boy sported.

The last thing the Dark Lord saw was a small smile on the face of the Boy-Who-Lived.

Harry Potter was dead.

* * *

The Red Keep was bustling with activity; servants running to and fro in an attempt to perform as much of their duties as they could. It had been storming for days, rain lashing the windows of the keep. The King had been kept from hunting in preparation for the birth of his heir, and what remnants of the previous regime existed had made certain they did not draw undue attention.

Robert Baratheon had never been the most patient of men, and he had intended to spend the day drinking and morose over the birth of his heir to a woman not his beloved Lyanna Stark.

Jon Arryn had managed to talk his stubborn ward down from his plans, and the young man was instead roped into talk of continuing legacies.

“It is a boy, Your Grace.”

Looking down at the child placed in her arms, Cersei Lannister noted a head full of thick black hair and wide green eyes that were staring absently into hers. He was surprisingly quiet, and had it not been for his fierce howling upon birth she would have worried about the child. There was a small tinge of triumph; for all that she despised her husband, the child had her eyes and would forever be a reminder of his mother’s house.

“A son, my love.” She murmured proudly. She had done her duty to the King and her family; a healthy heir for the kingdoms completing her father’s wish for Lannister blood on the Iron Throne.

“Have them ring the bells!” the king called. “They will ring all week to celebrate. A son. A prince for the kingdoms.”

The babe simply stared at his mother content to cuddle in the warmth he was surrounded by. Sharp eyes noted the looming presence of his father the king, tall and heavily muscled, blue eyes glowing in pride and triumph.

In this world, as in his last, the child looked like his father but with his mother’s distinctive green eyes. He would be surrounded by the red and gold lion, as before, and cloak himself in the stag of his father.

Of course, the babe did not yet know that. He simply slept on; unaware of the importance of his birth, unknowing of how much his existence had changed the Game.

The bells rang loudly throughout King’s Landing, the city made aware of the birth of the crown prince. Harry Potter had died and was born again as Steffon Baratheon, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

* * *

Little Steffon Baratheon was much loved by the people in the Red Keep. His father was the king, his mother the beautiful queen, and Steff the handsome young prince. By the time he was two, Steff was walking and talking, memories of another life helping him put his words together. Harry Potter had never had memories of his parents, nothing good at least, and Steffon treasured the awareness he now had. As disconcerting as it had been to find himself once again a child – and with the full memories of a seventeen-year-old wizard – this gave him the ability to bask in his parent’s love.

The keeps inhabitants had kept a close watch on the young prince; and while Steffon shamelessly used his mental age to his advantage, it brought forth a slew of comparisons between himself and his predecessor.

Rhaegar Targaryen was a ghost, haunting the keep in ways Robert Baratheon had probably discounted, as he was wont to do. Targaryen sigils had been scrubbed, the dragon skulls hidden from his sight, and yet the whispers continued. The servants were skilled in quieting their mutterings and the Spider had not seen fit to inform the king of his heir’s similar disposition to his most hated foe. He had heard snippets of conversation, mutterings between servants and the nursemaids who all assumed that the little prince did not understand their words. Steff was not inclined to disabuse them of that notion.

The Silver Prince had been a brilliant brooding man, prone to melancholy. Steff would never breathe a word of the memories that assailed him, visions of friends and events that dragged the young child into a pit of despair at times.

His first year had been spent adjusting to his new surroundings; his status, his living parents, and mourning the likelihood of ever seeing those he had once lost. This was a new lease on life, and Steffon was determined to be far less broody than Harry Potter had been. And so the young prince smiled and held good cheer to the extent that the servants were calling him the Laughing Storm.

There had been other utterances, far more devastating than his similarity to the Last Dragon. Whispers of dragonspawn and the accursed kinslayer, but Steff ruthlessly ignored those with a feeling of dread in his stomach.

When Steff was not quite one, his mother had been pregnant with her second child. The young boy had watched as the entire keep seemed to coil in tension.

Two moons after his first nameday, his mother announced her second pregnancy. The Lord Hand had been relieved. Two potential heirs in such a short span; it was all that the kingdoms needed to ensure some form of stability. Grandfather Tywin had sent a letter of congratulations and Steff could feel his mother breathe a sigh of relief when it came.

The maids gossiped freely when near his chambers, so Steffon shamelessly learned what they had known. The wizarding world had taught him that information freely given was a useful commodity, and he was determined to be better than his previous self.

His birth had come after the Targaryen children managed to escape, solidifying his father’s rule after that particular loss. Yet Steff was only a babe, and there was always uncertainty with young children in their world. Best to have an heir and a spare as soon as possible.

Mother had been steadily growing round in the middle. A baby was growing in her, though the part of Steff that had been Harry Potter flushed in embarrassed horror at what that entailed.

Uncle Jaime had walked him to her rooms, japing as they went, and as the doors were opened by her guards the young boy squirmed out of his uncle’s hold and bounded straight into his mother’s arms.

Today she was wearing a red gown, loose around her middle to accommodate her growing belly. In little Steff’s eyes, his mother was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and Harry’s memories agreed. Lustrous gold hair and gleaming emerald eyes, Steff did not think any of the women in the whole kingdoms could hold a candle to his mother.

“Mama!” he beamed. “Is baby coming?”

Chuckling softly, Cersei smoothed the hair off her son’s forehead. “Soon my love,” she said, dropping a kiss to his head. “Your brother will join us any day now.”

There were some days when Steff thought his mother could barely stand the sight of him. It was subtle, but Steff was no ordinary child. He had lived before with relatives who could barely tolerate him. But then mother would smile at him, press a kiss to his forehead and call him her little lion cub, and he would forget what he saw in those moments.

Steff despaired at the thought. He would always look like the man who sired him, but in this world it seemed to be another type of curse. Instead of the scorn of a bitter man, he had to contend with his mother’s discontent with her kingly husband.

A part of him mourned Lily and James Potter, who had so readily given their lives for their only son. Westeros had made him worldly enough to realize that mayhaps he would not have enjoyed parents as much. He had idolized the thought of them before he bitterly learned how flawed in character they could both be.

As beautiful a couple as they were, Steffon had come to realize that his parents left much to be desired. His first year he had spent in ignorance of their true relationship, but a walking and talking Steffon had learned far more than he wanted to. They argued far more than any couple he knew, and entering his father’s rooms when he was preoccupied with his whores had scarred the boy and infuriated his mother beyond anything he had seen.

To be fair, he was certain his parents loved him. Cersei Lannister adored her only son; but her love was matched by her hatred of his father, and Steff was Robert writ small but for his eyes, green and glowing with power, suppressed as his magic felt in this land. Robert himself certainly loved him, nearly as much as he could love a person. Rhaegar Targaryen had stolen more than his father’s betrothed. He had taken all that Robert had once been, full of zeal and a lust for life, until all that was left was a husk of a man drinking and whoring his way through life in an attempt to recover whatever it was he thought lost.

Steffon was acutely aware of their shortcomings, deadly as they were to his continued health. It seemed as if he had not learned from the past for he foolishly allowed himself to love these two in spite of everything.

* * *

A sennight later, Joffrey of House Baratheon would come into the world. Father was riding out in the Kingswood, hunting for the feast and leaving the birth to the women. Uncle Jaime was here, pacing up and down the hall. Odd though his presence was, none would dare tell him his presence was unseemly. The golden knight would hide a wince at each scream that tore through his sister’s throat, and only the fact that he held Steffon in his arms prevented him from tearing down the door.

When the maester had bid them enter, Uncle Jaime had brushed the Hand of the King aside, rushing to his sister’s side with her son in his arms.

Mother looked exhausted, hair plastered to her forehead, but she was glowing in triumph. In her arms nestled Steff’s new sibling. Like their mother, Joffrey had wisps of golden hair and his eyes were the same green as his elder brother. Uncle Jaime placed him on the bed next to Mother, and she pulled him closer so he could better see his brother.

“Steffon, my love, this is your brother Joffrey.”

Steff had stared down at the tiny face, heart expanding to make room for the new addition to their family. Harry Potter had never had the pleasure of being an older sibling. Only Dudley, and the less said about his cousin the better. Steffon wanted a brother, another sibling, more than anything else at this moment. As little Joffrey curled his tiny fist around Steff’s finger, the young boy swore to love and protect him.

He had been quite thoroughly disappointed in his parents, but Steff made a series of oaths this day. He could not protect Joffrey from the truth, nor would he ever attempt to. Joffrey was the greatest accomplishment of his parents, and Steffon would see to it that the small child never lacked love in his life. He would disappoint his parents, would be disappointed when he realized the truth of them, but he would always have Steffon.

“You must care for him, sweetling,” Mother said. “Protect him from anyone who isn’t us.”

“Always,” he swore.

* * *

Steffon had kept his promise. Outside of the nurses and his mother, Steff was the most frequent visitor to the young prince. He and Joff had shared the royal nursery the infant prince had taken to the older boy. His first steps had been to Steffon, the blonde teetering on unsteady feet with a wide smile on his face. Joff had been ever near his elder brother, and the younger boy doggedly pursued his steps until he could run around their room after Steff. His second word had been a mangled attempt to say Steff, and the elder prince loved his brother as fiercely as a lion.

Their father had been glad for the birth of another son, another heir to secure his rule. That was it mostly. Oh, Robert tried sometimes. He would walk in to the nursery and attempt to spend time with both princes. Steffon had enjoyed his father’s arms as a young babe, the massive man throwing the child in the air or bouncing him on his knee. As Steff had aged and Joff joined him in the nursery, Robert’s visits had become less frequent. They saw him when he deigned to visit, but Joff had always cried in their father’s arms, the mans booming voice frightening the young child, and Mother had fought to keep them separated. Steff had stuck close to his brother, preferring to keep the younger boy company as their parents ruled.

Joff walking had caused enough problems for the servants. He never settled until he had tired himself out, and the nurses were treated to his thunderous cries when they attempted to curb his activities. The Kingsguard were no better, forced to walk after the two princes once Steffon realized he could order them to allow Joffrey to walk the halls or in the garden. Mother had been furious, but Steffon had felt the twinge of guilt he felt at forcing the knights into the position of glorified babysitters fade when he saw the gummy smile his brother gave him.

Joff grew, and Steffon himself continued to grow in leaps and bounds. In preparation for future lessons, Steffon had been learning his letters in the quiet of the nursery, a desk brought in so the prince could have quill and parchment.

The door suddenly opened, and Steffon barely had time to turn to the door before he was holding a crying Joff in his arms.

Startled, he looked down to the young boy wrapping his arms around his middle, and seeing the tears Steff glared at the nursemaid who brought him in.

“What has happened to my brother?” he questioned coldly.

“M-my prince,” she stammered, “the little prince was feeling unwell. He would not say what ails him.” The woman fidgeted, and whilst Steffon had normally gone out of his way to be kind, seeing his brother in tears had woken something furious in him, roaring for blood.

“Leave us,” he ordered curtly. “Have someone bring food to the rooms, we will be staying here.”

Curtsying quickly with a murmured “My Prince”, Steff ignored the woman as he hauled his younger brother into his arms, grateful for inheriting the Baratheon build. Already, he was taller than most children his age and sturdy. Climbing into his bed, Steff allowed the younger boy to curl into him. His tears had turned into light sniffles. Steff wiped the child’s tears away and attempted to tilt Joff’s head toward him. He resisted, face stubbornly remaining burrowed in his side, and Steff worriedly laid his head atop his brother’s golden curls.

“What’s wrong little fawn?” he asked softly.

Joff was silent for several moments. He was not yet two, but Steffon had noticed that the boy frustrated easily at his inability to properly express himself. It was difficult, and at times it had reached the point of violence, with Joff throwing his carved toys at the nursemaids. His father and mother had indulged his behaviour, but Steff had been alarmed and gently admonished the child. He was patient, far more than a child of three should be and he knew it unnerved some people, yet the memories of Dudley Dursley’s excesses and his parent’s inability to curb his behaviour forced his hand. Steffon would not suffer to see his precious brother turn into a spoiled brat, nor would he wish a horrifying experience to force him to change his behaviour.

“Yelling,” he mumbled.

Stiffening, Steffon calmly asked, “Who was?”

“Fa’der and mother,” came the quiet response.

Sighing, he pressed a kiss to Joff’s head. He had feared the day when Joffrey began to notice their parents’ arguments. They were always loud, arguing fiercely over his father’s whoring, his mother’s coldness to her husband, and the oft-repeated mentions of the She-Wolf that had been a bone of contention between the two of them for as long as Steffon could remember.

What could he say to Joff? Ignore it? He was unaware of what good would come out of that. Sighing morosely, Steffon merely whispered his love to the child and held him until the servants brought their food.

* * *

Prince Steffon’s fourth nameday passed in a whirlwind of celebrations far too extravagant for a child his age. Yet he was the crown prince, and the realm sought to curry favour with his father through his gifts.

Alongside his gift of a small pony from the Reach, a chestnut filly with black spots, the Hand had decided that it was time the prince began his formal education. Lord Arryn had entreated the Grand Maester to begin his lessons, and so the man and his acolytes took care of his education as soon as the celebrations ended.

The last thing he wanted was to leave Joff alone for long periods, yet duty had given him the mantle of prince. Steff was determined to be a good prince of the realm, and so he attended his lessons and was an attentive student. The maester and his acolytes had no cause to complain, and Steffon was certain that along with reports to the small council, grandfather Tywin would receive his own. Whether from mother or Pycelle he did not yet know. _Perhaps a combination of both_, he thought.

Joffrey’s upset had lasted only hours before Steff regaled him with stories before bed. They centred on tales of Harry’s days at Hogwarts, of mythical creatures such as basilisks and dragons and sphinx, which he learned, all existed in this world as well. The young child’s favourite was of the young swordsman trying his luck against a fifty-foot long basilisk.

Joff had been delighted, swearing to their Mother that he would be able to protect her from all manner of creatures. Mother had simply laughed and kissed his golden head.

Father had been amused, and he began to boast of his days destroying dragons.

This was the first time Steffon had heard of his Father’s tales about the rebellion. Oh, he knew of it as an abstract topic; the servants were careful not to discuss the events that brought House Baratheon to the throne, and Steffon had been far too preoccupied with his younger brother to look deeper.

The man had been drinking, and Joff’s proclamation of his future as a dragon hunter had been the beginning of the end for Robert Baratheon. A lifetime of watching adults, of paying close attention to their body cues proved useful as Steff watched Ser Barristan close off, eyes going blank. Even Uncle Jaime had a sardonic grin on his face, none of the mocking playfulness Steff had come to expect from his uncle visible in his face.

Uncle Jaime and Ser Barristan were the last of the Targaryen Kingsguard, the last remnants of Mad Aerys. As Robert boasted about his battle with Rhaegar Targaryen, Steff watched as the two most formidable swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms held back from harming their king.

“What happened to his family?” he unthinkingly asked, interrupting the king’s _fond_ recollections.

Father’s stormy blue eyes darkened as he replied, “They are dead, and we are all the better for it.”

Seeing Steffon’s eyes widen, the king waved for his son to come forward, the larger man easily lifting the child onto his lap.

“Every night I dream of the day I caved his chest in. Rhaegar Targaryen was a raping madman. He stole my Lyanna, forced himself-,” the king’s voice cracked slightly. Despite himself, Steff felt a twinge of pity for his father. “—the world does not need more of those dragons.”

Catching his chin, father forced Steff’s face up to look into his eyes, glowing green eyes locked onto stormy blue. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Steff said evenly.

Robert Baratheon was not the Dark Lord. Voldemort had relished in death and destruction, simply for the sake of his power. Hearing the man speak of his relish at Rhaegar Targaryen’s death, at the death of innocent children younger than him whose only crime was their parentage, Steffon was finding it difficult to remember that his father _was_ different from Tom Riddle.

* * *

Grand Maester Pycelle was a rotten old man, of that Steffon was entirely convinced. The man acted like a doddering old fool, constantly shuffling about with his oversized chain of links, but Steff had seen a flash of cunning in his eyes and had never truly felt comfortable around the man. That he was in charge of the ravens only reminded Steffon unpleasantly of Dolores Umbridge, and he had determined that he would never trust someone who could be reading their mail.

Conveniently, Steff ignored the maester’s loyalty to House Lannister and his position as Crown Prince removing any true privacy.

He had been three when he began to learn his letters, but Lord Arryn had formalized his lessons after his fourth nameday. At four, they determined he could start his history lessons, and Pycelle was droning on now about the royal family and their lineage as Steff carefully copied down what he said.

“The founder of your house, my prince?”

Frowning slightly at his writing – really, Steff did not enjoy the limitations of his body – “Orys Baratheon married Argella Durrandon.”

“The words and sigil?”

“Orys took the Durrandon words and sigil for his own; _Ours Is The Fury_ along with the crowned black stag on a golden field.”

“Very good,” he praised. No doubt, a raven would be winging its way to Casterly Rock to let Lord Tywin know of the efforts of his prodigious grandson.

“House Baratheon descends from the Storm Kings of Durrandon and took Storm’s End as their seat. House Lannister, my prince?”

Screwing his eyes a bit, Steff attempted to recall what he had learned. “Lann the Clever swindled Casterly Rock from the Casterly’s and began the Lannister family.”

“I wouldn’t quite say swindled, my prince—” the man mumbled.

Cocking his head to the side, Steff had to hold his tongue from responding cheekily. No doubt, everything he learned and said was being relayed to others. Mother had been upset when he asked why he had to learn about her house, and Steffon had been careful not to make it seem as if the Lannister name was in any way unworthy or below the Baratheons.

“Are we moving on to lineages, maester?” he asked smoothly.

“Y-yes, Prince Steffon. House Baratheon first. You are the eldest son of His Grace, King Robert, first of his name. The king is himself the eldest son of Lord Steffon Baratheon and Lady Cassana Estermont. Lord Steffon was the sole child of Lord Ormund Baratheon and Princess Rhaelle Targaryen. Lord Ormund—”

Steff’s mind blanked at that last addition. _Rhaelle Targaryen_, he thought. What was it the High Septon had said in his sermons? _Accursed is the kinslayer_. He knew his uncle had been reviled for killing the Mad King, called Kingslayer by all. But this…

“Who is Princess Rhaelle?” he interrupted.

“I b-beg your p-pardon y-your grace?” Pycelle stammered.

“Princess Rhaelle? Who is she? How is she related to the Targaryens? Is that where father’s claim comes from?”

“Y-yes, my prince,” he continued. “That is indeed where the claim comes from. Princess Rhaelle was the youngest child of Aegon the Unlikely. Prince Duncan had broken his betrothal with your grandfather’s aunt by running off with the peasant Jenny of Oldstones. In return, only after Lyonel Baratheon’s rebellion was put down did King Aegon agree to a marriage between Lord Lyonel’s heir Ormund and Princess Rhaelle to soothe tensions. Lord Steffon was thus the grandson, nephew, and cousin of kings.”

_A kinslayer_, he thought. Steffon wanted to laugh and cry. Bad enough father rejoiced at the thought of children dying. Robert Baratheon had killed his cousin, rejoiced at the death of his cousins. _Had sent Uncle Stannis to kill grandfather Steffon’s cousin and her children!_

_What a family I’ve been born into_, he thought hysterically. Petunia, for all that she had openly despised Harry Potter had never killed her nephew, nor allowed her husband to kill him.

_But this is a different world_, he thought darkly, _and they were all wrong. Baratheon, Lannister, Dursley._

The Crown Prince’s inattention is unnoticed, and his lessons continue in the same vein. Steffon dutifully attends them, but his eyes are now opened to what kind of world he is living in, and what his family has done.

There are more atrocities, he knows. More things that are left unsaid but linger in the air. Steffon had once known nothing about his family as an orphaned wizard, but he had no excuse during this life. He was a prince, _the prince_, and Harry Potter had always been strong-willed and curious when it came to things others sought to hide from him. He would eventually discover what had happened.

* * *

It had taken him less time than he thought to discover the scope of the Rebellion. His father for one was far more willing to speak of the war, although Steff shied away from asking.

Surprisingly, his greatest source of information was his Uncle Stannis. Two years younger than the king, Stannis Baratheon was a slimmer, grimmer version of his father. His uncle rarely smiled, was prematurely bald, and perpetually disappointed in his brothers. Father and Uncle Stannis fought almost as often as mother and father did, and mother considered the man to be dour and kept Joff and him well away when she could. Stannis’s approval was hard won, but Steff was positive that simply showing interest in his studies improved his standing with his uncle.

He had managed to run into the man in the library, and Steff perked at the thought of asking his questions. He sent a silent prayer of thanks to the gods for his uncle’s interest in his education, as Stannis often made a point of looking over his nephew’s work.

He was in his favourite corner of the library, books piled around him as well as sheafs of parchment. He was meant to be going over his lineages, especially those of the Great Houses, and noticing his uncle turn the corner Steff sent him a small smile.

“Nuncle,” he said.

“Steffon,” he replied curtly. “What does the old rat have you working on?”

“Lineages,” he stated morosely.

Stannis merely smiled grimly. Steffon had to hope his attempt at more information worked. His uncle may not like the trappings of court, but the man was not witless. He despised guile and deception, and Steff steeled himself into his most innocent face.

“The Tully’s in particular,” he led with a look of consternation on his face..

Raising a brow, he looked at him with cool blue eyes. “What do you know of House Tully?”

“There are five members,” he began, attempting to withhold his small smirk. He was not yet clear for his goal. “Lord Hoster is the Lord Paramount. He has a brother, Ser Brynden, and three children: Ladies Catelyn and Lysa, and a son Lord Edmure.”

Uncle Stannis gave a nod of approval, and Steffon took that as a sign to continue.

“Lady Lysa is the Lady Arryn, as we’ve met here in the capitol.” Steff barely held in his grimace at the memory of the woman. _Weeping, miserable Lady Arryn_, he thought _who’s disdain for her husband was matched by her dislike of Lannisters_. “I’ve not met the Lady Catelyn.”

Nodding sharply, Uncle Stannis answered his unspoken question. “No, you would not have. She is the Lady Stark, and Ned Stark has not stepped foot in the capital since the end of the Rebellion.”

Frowning in surprise, Steffon quickly scribbled that particular note into his parchment.

“Was she always betrothed to Lord Stark?” he thought out loud.

“To Lord Stark’s elder brother,” Uncle Stannis corrected. “Though the Rebellion has caused a great deal of change.”

Standing, Stannis gave Steffon an awkward pat to his shoulder. “I must go. Continue to do well in your studies, nephew.” Turning, the man halted and looked down at Steff with his piercing gaze. “You are the Crown Prince; hesitating to ask the necessary questions will only be to your detriment,” he warned.

Flushing slightly, Steffon gave a small nod and murmured his goodbyes. He was certain the man had not known what it was he was looking for, though his uncle might have read something else into his actions.

Lifting the parchment that he had hidden beneath the stack of books, Steffon glanced down at the rudimentary map of Westeros that had been inked onto it. It had been his own handiwork, something one of Pycelle’s acolytes insisted on to help remember where each family was located in relation to each other.

The young man could not have known how helpful it would prove to be. Gazing at the map, Steffon could see the lines being drawn.

What was the point of an oath if they could not keep to it? It seems the High Septon uttered words that the nobles were intent on ignoring. _Spare the innocent, keep to one bed, and obey your King_. He snorted in disgust. It was all nonsense. Men were creatures of violence, delighting in fighting and fucking their way through life until they had sated their lusts. Satisfied the monsters within. It was never permanent, just a continuous cycle of temporary satisfaction until they yearned for blood again.

“As High As Honor,” he muttered. _For the greater good_.

Steffon felt ash in his mouth at that thought.

There was a long road of travel ahead of them, so that Lord Tywin may meet his grandsons, and he knew that he would be forced to interact with the entire council. All he wanted was to hide in his room and avoid his family as he processed his thoughts.

The raven that came from Casterly Rock would aid his efforts. _Dark wings, dark words _he thought. Balon Greyjoy had declared himself King of the Iron Islands.

* * *

In his short life as Steffon Baratheon, the little prince had come to adore the big man who had sired him. His growing awareness of who Robert Baratheon was, what he had done to get the crown, had soured the boy’s thoughts, but he still held a kindle of affection for the older man. Robert was rough around the edges, but the man had shown affection with his sons during the times when he could be spared to pull away from his whores and drinks, and while Steff knew his parents had disliked each other—_they had all heard the yelling after Edric Storm had been born_—and fought as fiercely as two cats, he had been willing to ignore it and focus all his attentions on his brother.

Years later, Steff would be unable to recall what exactly had triggered the argument between his parents, although he knew it had to do with the war. All he could vividly recall were the loud sounds, anger palpable in the air and the sharp smack that rang out.

The king strode out of the room, face thunderous and unmarked and utterly ignorant of the fact that his heir had been standing just outside.

Jaw clenched, Steff fought against the urge to claw at his father, to do something other than hold back the bile that was in his throat, but he was only four and unable to fight. He sent a small prayer to the Gods that Joff was busy in his lessons before making his way inside.

His mother’s apartments were usually neat, finely crafted furniture and ostentatious trinkets littering the rooms. Today, many of those trinkets were on the floors, some shattered beyond recognition. Steff walked closer to the woman, her blonde hair covering her face.

“Mother,” he whispered.

The queen slowly raised her head, green eyes simmering with fury. There was a darkening bruise on her left cheek, the skin purpling in evidence of the king’s fury. Steff stared in horror at his mother.

“Leave me,” she hissed. “GET OUT!”

Cringing, the prince turned and ran from the rooms, the look of hatred on his mother’s face searing itself into his brain.

Not for the first time Steffon cursed his father, cursed his unfortunate resemblance to the man, and cursed his mother for her inability to see beyond his looks.

* * *

Time passed, the King having left for war and taking most of the Kingsguard with him. He had left Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Boros Blount to guard his heirs, as well as a score of knights Lord Tywin had sent to be part of the queen’s household. 

His mother had apologized with a hug and kiss on the forehead, calling him her precious lion cub, and though Steffon had graciously accepted her apology he had never truly forgotten. All he truly had was Joffrey; Joff and this title and the kingdom he would one day inherit. He would be the best king there could be, better than anything he saw from his father, better than his mother thought she could rule. He would be king and Joff would be right there beside him as brothers.

_Nothing like father and Uncle Stannis_, he thought darkly.

Stannis had saved the day in Pyke from what the ravens had said, laying siege to Pyke and breaking the Iron Fleet at sea. Mores the pity; he was unlikely to receive true recognition from father.

Steffon had thus spent more of his time with Joff. When he wasn’t in his lessons, he was with the younger boy, helping him learn his letters, telling him stories about the Seven Kingdoms that he had learned in his lessons, and playing at swords with him.

His fifth nameday had occurred at the end of the war. Beyond the expectations for a smaller feast in light of the Greyjoy’s actions, Steffon had been greeted with dreams that had held him in a vice of terror. Steffon did not know from whence they came, but they differed from his visions of Voldemort.

_He was standing on a field of ice as far as the eye could be. The sky was grey and drab, the field empty but for the presence of a vast army. They were human. Had been, he should say, for they reminded Steffon rather horrifically of the inferi he had encountered in the cave._

_They were led by a group of men armoured in ice. In the centre, standing tall with pale features and an almost unearthly beauty was what he assumed was their leader. He had horns that spiked into a crown, and as he turned to Steffon he noticed his gaze was blue; endless, vibrant blue that sparked with a malevolence eerily reminiscent of Tom Riddle._

Always, Steff woke with a wordless scream. His magic, which he had always thought lost to him, sparked angrily, a surge of power coursing through him as it reacted to his fear.

He did not know what it was he saw, could not fathom what it was that had evoked such terror in him.

The last time he had felt like this was upon learning of the Dark Lord’s horcruxes, and that same soul crushing fear and hopelessness took hold of him now. On those days the visions assaulted him, Steff made his way down the tunnels they had discovered to a rocky shore outside the walls. The crashing noise of the Blackwater always soothed him, and his magic settled far easier in reach of the sea.

The library did not have much information on what he had seen. There were some scrolls and books written in High Valyrian though he was not yet proficient. In his bones, he knew that it – whatever _it_ was – would require some sort of war, his magic thrumming alongside the churning sea as if in agreement. The prince brooded, thoughts wracked with how he could possibly deal with something seemingly dangerous.

* * *

When Ser Barristan returned with the king from Casterly Rock, Steff immediately sought out the knight. It was just his luck that he was guarding his father as the man attended a small council meeting to discuss the end of the war. Ser Preston opened the council doors after a slight glare from the prince.

They were clearing up, from the look of things, which suited Steff.

“Ser Barristan.” The eyes of the small council were on the prince, and Steffon steeled his resolve.

“Prince Steffon,” the knight said kindly. “How may I be of service?”

“I must learn the sword, Ser. Will you take me on as your squire?”

Blinking slightly, the knight looked to his king and Lord Arryn.

“Prince Steffon,” Lord Arryn began. “You are still young. There is time left before you must learn to wield a sword.”

“I am five, Lord Arryn.” He stated calmly, “and a Prince of the Realm, besides. I do not have time for childish fancies, as duty has made me the Crown Prince. I must learn, and I am strong enough for it.”

Silence greeted him, although Steffon noticed Lord Varys hiding a slight smile. He hadn’t been lying; Steff was strong enough to start his training, tall and broad for his age on account of his Baratheon blood where Joff took more after their Lannister side although he too was tall for his age.

The king stared coolly at him. “A sword, you say?”

“Yes father.”

“Why should you wield a sword? You are naught but a child still.”

“Noble sons across the realm are wielding wooden swords at my age, as you yourself once had,” he answered fiercely. “Why should the Crown Prince be any different?”

“Your gr—” Jon Arryn began.

“Ah, leave it be Jon,” the King laughed. Stormy blue eyes locked onto those of his son, and Steffon squared his shoulders in preparation. _Father will not deny me this_, he thought. _Not with how he boasts of his skill_.

“You will do everything Ser Barristan tells you to, and you will train in addition to your lessons.”

“Yes, father.”

“Well, Ser,” the king laughed. “It seems as if there is another _bold_ Stormlander to learn the sword.”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” the knight replied. Ser Barristan looked closed off, eyes lost in thought though the knight was acutely aware of what was occurring around him.

“There you have it, go on boy!”

Bowing to his father, with a murmured “Your Grace, my Lords, Ser” Steffon exited the chambers, waiting until he entered his rooms to let out a whoop of glee. He had almost thought the Lord Hand would put him off until his seventh nameday, but his father’s pride won out as he hoped.

Joff entered the room startled, and Steff grabbed the younger boy in a fierce hug, twirling him around the room. The blonde’s laughter rang out as he squirmed in his hold.

“I’m going to be a knight, Joff!” he exclaimed.

Laughing, Joffrey stumbled as Steffon placed him on his feet. “Swords?” he questioned.

“Not quite yet, brother.” Seeing the mulish pout on the child’s face, Steffon attempted to soothe his ire.

“One day soon Joff, you’ll start your sword lessons too.”


	2. The Making of a Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The education of Steffon Baratheon.

The sound of singing metal rang through the air as Steffon jerked left to avoid Ser Barristan’s sword. He tried to ignore it, knowing the old knight had requested the presence of additional swords to help him practice.

_“When you’re in the midst of a battle, the slightest bit of inattention can cost you. Ignore the sounds of others, focus on your opponent.” Ser Barristan suddenly lunged, wooden sword held above Steff’s shoulder blocking another sword from Ser Aron._

_The two men stepped back from each other, and Ser Barristan turned his blue gaze to Steff. “Focus too much, and you lose sight of what is happening around you.”_

Ser Barristan hadn’t needed to explain; Steffon was determined to be the best warrior he could be. He eagerly took to his lessons, finding the rhythm of a fight almost calming.

As pleased as Steffon had been to start his sword lessons, the queen had been just as displeased. She had roared her anger at the King, his Hand, even at Uncle Jaime when he had dared to tell her that this was a good thing for the prince.

Only Steffon’s intervention had kept her anger at bay, begging his mother to let him begin his training so he could become a knight like his golden uncle; and who better to train the prince than Barristan the Bold. That had calmed her ire, though she was still displeased at Robert insisting on the lessons in spite of her worries.

Mother’s attention had soon drifted, as the maester declared her third pregnancy. They celebrated, and Lord Arryn had seemed relieved at the continuance of the Baratheon line.

Joff had been slightly displeased, understanding that a new babe would take most of their mother’s attention. He had been on the verge of a tantrum before Steff had quickly nipped his worries in the bud.

“What about you Joff? Should I be displeased at all the attention you receive from mother?” he teased, ruffling his golden hair.

“No!” the boy had replied, face scrunched in consternation. “You’re _my_ brother.”

“Hmm, and soon we will have a new sibling. It’s not so bad, I promise. And,” Steffon added, green eyes sparkling, “you can protect them with me. Just like I do you.”

Joff’s eyes had lit up at the thought, and when their mother had birthed first Myrcella, and then Tommen the year after, the young prince had sworn to be their shield.

Following in his older brother’s footsteps, and with two younger siblings to protect, Joffrey had asked to begin his sword lessons as well. Steffon was seven, taller and bigger than his younger brother and of an age to begin practicing how to joust, and Joffrey was determined to catch up to him.

Mother was busy with Cella and Tom –_and how he had felt ash in his mouth at the thought of his brother’s name_—and Joffrey had convinced father that he too was of an age to begin. His brother was joyous when the King approved his lessons. Joff had very nearly been denied, but he argued fiercely and was most determined to be the best. Uncle Jaime had been amused when his nephews had declared that they would be knighted at a younger age than he had been, arrogantly telling them that they could only hope to match up to his skill.

Ser Barristan disagreed, and he put the two through their paces. Despite being royalty, the older knight was unwilling to go soft on either of them. Steffon had spent the last two years working on his foot placement until it came to him much quicker, and he cursed his bulky frame. Harry Potter had been slender and excelled at duels with quickness. Joff was more likely to be the lankier of the two, and Steff had been learning to use his bulk to his advantage while not letting his speed suffer.

Steff was thankful when Ser Barristan tapped him quickly on the shoulder and left thigh with his blunt blade. Wincing lightly, he returned his sword to the rack, eagerly gulping the water skin a page handed to him, hair plastered to his face.

“You still favour your right side,” Ser Barristan remarked. “Your lunges will become noticeable if you stick to a set pattern.”

Stifling a groan at the reprimand, Steffon nodded in acceptance. “Grand Maester Pycelle says I shall have healed completely in a sennight.”

He felt the knight’s appraising look, and chancing a glance away from Joff’s lessons, he saw Barristan give a short nod. “You are young yet, my prince. There is enough time to learn to fight through the pain.”

“I shall endeavour to do my best Ser,” Steffon quipped.

“Just as well, else we might have to return wooden swords,” he added.

“Perish the thought Ser,” Steff laughed. “Joff would crow over my return to the basics until his dying breath.”

Ser Barristan chuckled softly, eyes scanning the courtyard. They watched as Ser Aron swiftly disarmed Joff, a frustrated expression on the boy’s face. Ser Aron had placed a hand on Joff’s shoulder, rotating his arm to correct him, and Steffon watched the determined look in his eyes.

“He’s determined to best Uncle Jaime. Knighted as young as Daemon Blackfyre if you believe Joff’s words.” Steffon chuckled.

“The prince is certainly determined,” Ser Barristan agreed, as Joff made his way over, jerkin drenched in sweat.

“Aye.”

It had been slightly surprising, how much effort Joffrey was putting into his lessons. The younger child had taken his words to heart; Joff was early for every lesson and very rarely complained of the strenuous pace Ser Aron and Ser Barristan set. Joff’s temper had also cooled somewhat, given the energetic boy now spent a good portion of his time swinging a wooden sword, and he had railed when Mother attempted to cancel his lessons on seeing the motley of bruises that littered his legs.

“You are improving,” Steffon told him, walking toward the keep so they could wash up before dinner.

“Ser Aron says I needs must learn to be more patient,” Joff muttered, a pleased look at the compliment.

Chuckling, Ser Barristan added “Master the basics first, Prince Joffrey, else you will continuously err.”

Joff took his advice with a solemn nod. The younger boy idolized Ser Barristan, and had been gleeful upon learning that he consented to teach the two of them at the same time. The Lord Commander was often busy, being the king’s principal guard and in command of his brother’s, but the knight insisted on training them himself. Joff had vowed not to disappoint his knightly master, and Steffon often saw him practicing his footwork before bed.

Their dinners were spent pestering the knights around them for war stories. Steffon knew battle, had dreams of the horrors that war caused, and he had no doubt that fighting with steel was just as horrifying as magic, perhaps more devastating, considering the close encounter of swords. Yet still they persisted; asking Ser Barristan about the War of the Ninepenny Kings, badgering Uncle Jaime about the Ironborn, asking Lord Arryn about the many Blackfyre rebellions he had witnessed.

The only topic they steered away from was the Rebellion. Steff was still sour over the thought of what had come after, and Ser Barristan and Uncle Jaime had been Targaryen men. But it was the king’s favourite topic, the only war he had truly fought in, and the man was always eager to recount it. As distasteful as he found it, Steff _was_ intrigued at the thought of all those soldiers doing battle, the different tactics they would have had to employ.

* * *

In addition to his lessons at arms, Steffon had begun his formal training in the ways of kingship. No maester could truly teach Steff how to properly govern, but they expanded his lessons to include knowledge of all Seven Kingdoms. Steff’s brain was filled to the brim with names and sigils, who wed whom, which kingdoms allied with each other during times of war, and all manner of agreements between the crown and the lords paramount.

It was maddening.

Between lessons in the maester’s hall and the sparring grounds, Steff felt as if he rarely had time to absorb the lessons of being king. He was a pampered heir, he would reluctantly admit. More akin to a younger Draco Malfoy, but that a lifetime of memories as a downtrodden orphan kept the pomposity that came with his station at bay.

A moon prior to Joff’s sixth nameday, Steffon had escaped the madness of the castle.

His lessons were complete for the day, Ser Barristan had given them the day to rest, and while Joff spent time brushing up on his histories Steffon rushed to the city for some relief.

It had been a glorious experience; wearing a rough-spun cloak, hood drawn, he had darted across the secret passages until he found one that led to an alley just off Fishmonger Square.

The sheer number of people had startled him at first, but Steff had quickly acclimatised to the chaos of the city.

A cacophony of voices reached his ears; merchants and vendors peddling their wares, knights cutting across to the Street of Steel to upgrade their armour or purchase new pieces, arguing as they went about Lord Rosby’s tourney.

King’s Landing was dotted by buildings; taverns, whorehouses, rows of what he would consider homes for the usual courtiers that flittered about court. Further back he saw larges manses for the more established members, homes he knew his mother and father’s family both owned in the city near the Old Gate – though they no longer had need for them.

It had taken several more visits before Steffon had first set foot in Flea Bottom.

His excursions had always led him to Fishmonger Square, and the young prince often meandered along the streets until he made his way to Visenya’s Hill, the Great Sept looming over top. Steffon had never been the most devout, but his presence at the sept had been necessary for the blessings of his younger siblings.

Flea Bottom had never crossed his mind – not until the boy had decided to follow the Street of Sisters to the Dragonpit. Father had never let him travel there, and Steffon knew better than to ask.

The stench had increased the further he walked and he wrinkled his nose at the thought. King’s Landing smelled like shit; it was something he had always known, living with it as long as he had, but Flea Bottom seemed to be the centre of that shit pile, and Steffon was beginning to see why.

Children ran wild in the streets as he curiously entered the neighbourhood. Though, that was being generous – it was hardly standing, the buildings so close together Steff was certain there was no space between them but for the darkest and grimiest of alleys. Places where all manner of unspeakable things took place, if his mother was to be believed.

Seeing it with his own eyes, Steffon could certainly believe so. It was darker than the rest of the city, drenched in tangible despair. Never had he seen so many people living in abject squalor, but his father’s subjects did not all share the same lives.

Where he had seen vendors peddling their wares along the guarded streets, here he witnessed young children selling their bodies, unsavoury men lingering too close. From the corner of his eye he witnessed a fight, bloody and violent like he’d never seen. There were no gold cloaks to break up the fight, but Steffon spotted one a few paces ahead, a woman held in his grip.

Several children skilfully weaved in and around the crowd forming, and a rough shove knocked Steffon against a wall, bodies pressed tightly as people scrambled to avoid the wild swinging of the man’s knife. He was tall and lithe, stringy brown hair plastered to his head with sweat, mouth pulled back in a snarl. He clearly knew how to use a knife, his grip suggesting previous experience, but Steff could see the sheer rage in the man’s muddy eyes, blood pumping as he struck without a care for any innocents.

He was fighting a man much shorter than him: scrawny with close-cropped black hair. He was missing a finger on his left hand, but he did not let it deter him as he swung a knife at his assailant, right hand sailing to land a punch square to his stomach.

He was mouthy too, and though Steff could barely make out the other man’s words over the shouting of the crowd, he saw the taller one snarl in rage, knife flashing quicker as he lost control.

At that moment, Steffon realized two things; they were fighting to the death, and Steff had the unfortunate luck to be right in the shorter man’s range. The crowds jostling had pushed him forward, and he flailed in an attempt to stay out of the way. Though his frame was sturdy, the crowd outnumbered him. The flash of steel just missed his head as he threw himself to the ground, scrambling to get up.

_This is not what I had in mind,_ he thought in panic.

A hand grabbed his elbow and yanked him to his feet. They didn’t let go, and Steff was dragged along the crowded street before his helper elbowed his way to freedom. There was an empty alley up ahead; chancing a glance behind he saw the crowd begin to disperse – the gold cloaks were swarming the area, swords out as they battered the people around them, and Steffon saw blood before he was dragged through the alley to a smaller side road.

Yanking his hand free he whirled on the person before freezing.

It was a boy; around Steffon’s age, tall and broad with coal black hair and stormy blue eyes. He had soot on his face and callouses on his hands – had he been clean and with green eyes instead of blue, Steff would have felt as if he was staring at a distorted reflection. He didn’t look exactly like Steff, but there was an undeniable relation between the two.

_Another Edric Storm_, he wondered.

“Listen,” the boy began, “if you’re wantin’ to hang around and be smacked all over the place, go right ahead. Them gold cloaks will gut you without a word unless we _leave right now_.”

He was gaping, Steffon knew, and all his tutors would have reprimanded him for his behaviour.

“Who are you?” Steffon blurted out.

The boy in question stiffened, a frown coming over his face. “Yer a lordling,” he said brusquely. “What’s a lordling like you doin’ in Flea Bottom?”

Frowning, Steffon watched as the boy looked around the alley before moving forward. Walking quickly, he fell in step with him. “I lost my way,” Steffon said casually.

Snorting, he muttered, “Nearly lost yer life too, I’d bet, sneaking around when ye ought’ta stay away.”

“What’s your name?” Steffon tried.

“Gendry,” he answered, looking at Steff in suspicion. Steffon wisely kept quiet, guessing the other boy was waiting for him to pass judgement.

“Harry,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. Gendry would not recognize him, but he might notice their similarities, so Steff kept his hood up. They were walking along the alleyways of Flea Bottom before Gendry led him to a main roadway; houses lay next to taverns, rundown with broken windows, and Steff could see dirt and grime on some of the windows.

“S’pect its not wha’ yer used to,” Gendry stated, weaving around beggars and cutthroats with ease.

Steffon was ill at ease, seeing all this. He had lived a privileged life, he knew, but the state of Flea Bottom was disheartening. They walked past a girl, only a few years older than the two of them, leading a man by the hand into a building, and Steffon swallowed his revulsion at the sight.

“Has it always been like this?” he asked lowly. Everywhere he looked, there was evidence of neglect from the crown. His father wasn’t the best ruler, he knew, but surely Lord Arryn would have done _something_.

King’s Landing was the epicentre of Westerosi politics. The King’s court was housed here, yet all Steffon saw was a city falling into disrepair. There were far more people located inside this part of the city than elsewhere, and these were the smallfolk his family was meant to aid.

Gendry snorted in derision, “Them lords don’t care fer us.”

_When have the powerful cared for those they consider beneath them?_ _Might makes right_, he thought, and Westeros was a classic example of that.

They were coming upon the Street of Looms before Steffon decided to take his leave. Gendry would be cut down if he attempted to enter the keep and he was not keen on having his mother learn of his newest pastime.

He watched the boy walk off, steps quick as he lumbered his way back to Flea Bottom. Once he was certain Gendry had left the street, Steffon darted across to Shadowblack Lane. Following the twists up the hill, Steff curved away from the path to the keep’s gates, passing along the inns and taverns before he found the small pathway that would lead him back to the bowels of the keep.

* * *

He had managed to travel around the city for two moons before he had been spotted. 

Lord Varys had his little birds, flitting about the city and bringing word back to their patron, yet Steffon was horrified to note that it had been Ser Barristan to notice his wanderings.

He had spent two moons learning as much of the city as he could. He was often in Flea Bottom, cataloguing the state of disrepair, or simply walking about the city, learning as much information as he could. Most times, Steff had his hooded cloak with him – it had taken a fortnight before he realized that most would not recognize him, and that traveling hooded was more like to bring unwanted attention.

He’d seen Gendry once more, a week into his wanderings, and he had been pleasantly surprised to learn that the boy was an apprentice at Tobho Mott’s shop. There was nothing he could do for his father’s unclaimed bastard, but he was glad the boy had something he enjoyed.

Steffon avoided gold cloaks, avoided cutthroats and dodged the wandering hands of snatchers in the city, yet it was as he walked past the Mudman’s Sorrow that he realized he was being followed.

There was no invisibility cloak here to hide him – nor would it be useful in such a crowded environment – yet noticing the blue eyes of the old knight Steffon lamented his situation.

Ser Barristan moved swiftly to a twisting alley that would lead to The Hook, and a sharp glare caused Steffon to follow after him as quickly as he could.

He would pay for this, he knew, though it depended on whether the knight would inform his parents or mercilessly drill him in the yard.

Steffon was uncertain over which option he would prefer.

Pulling the hood of his cloak on, Steffon saw the knight fall into step with him, eyes cautiously looking around them for any sign of a threat. Chancing a look at the knight, Steff held back a wince. Ser Barristan looked upset, jaw set and lips pressed into a firm line – as far as safety had gone, Steffon had thoroughly broken all protocol. It would be a wonder if he were ever allowed to leave the keep again, even with an escort.

Wisely, the prince held his tongue as Ser Barristan led them to the gates of the keep. He seemed unwilling to unmask Steffon, and they walked casually amongst the courtiers traveling in and out of the keep, a quick glance at Ser Barristan allowing them to pass unassaulted.

He was led to the holdfast, still cloaked and taken to his rooms where he was ordered to clean and make himself presentable. Servants had readied a tub of water, and Steffon’s heart sank at the realization that _someone_ had noticed his absence.

Swallowing back his anger at the censure, Steffon had dutifully set about cleaning the dirt from the city. A black and gold doublet was laid out for him, the crowned stag stitched onto the brest, black breeches and boots to go along with it. He quickly ran a brush through his thick hair, thankful that it was more cooperative than his previous hair.

A pair of guards were standing outside his room, all wearing the Baratheon livery, and Ser Arys was waiting to escort him. The prince gave the white knight a short nod, allowing him to lead the way.

The wound their way through the halls of the holdfast, passing Ser Preston on the drawbridge as they walked to the Great Hall and moving quickly to the throne room, courtiers bowing as Steffon passed. _A public reprimand_, he thought. Father must be upset.

To his surprise, Steff was lead to the small council chambers located just off the throne room. Ser Arys knocked thrice before opening the door and ushering Steffon inside, turning to stand guard outside.

_Oh, I shall never recover from this latest blunder_, he thought morosely. Uncle Stannis awaited him, flanked by Ser Barristan and Lord Varys. They were a motley group – three men he would never think to be working alongside each other making common cause.

Taking the chair Uncle Stannis nodded at, Steffon calmly slid into his seat, spine ramrod straight and face cleared of emotion. He had been reckless, he knew, but he would not allow them to run roughshod over him.

Uncle Stannis looked unimpressed, brows furrowed and eyes dark – Steffon could practically hear his teeth grinding. Lord Varys wore a grim look on his face, though he could not be sure of the sincerity on his face; he’d heard tell that the man had been a mummer before joining Aerys’s court, and Steff was inclined to believe the rumours.

Ser Barristan had the most peculiar expression – the old Stormlands knight had oft stared at Steff oddly, as though lost in reminiscence. His gaze was tinted with grief as he looked at him, green eyes locked on blue, and Steffon felt dread curl up in his stomach.

He remained silent – a stubborn part of him that was equal parts Cersei and Robert and undeniably _Harry_ refusing to give in – and waited for his Uncle to speak.

“Prince Steffon, you gave us quite the scare this evening.” Varys simpered.

“It was not my intent to do so, my lord” Steffon replied.

“Spare me your excuses,” Stannis growled. “Have you any idea what could have occurred? The danger you brought upon yourself?”

Steffon tilted his chin up proudly, eyes locked upon his uncle. _I was careful_, he wanted to rage, though Stannis’s next words deflated his pride.

“What would become of you should an enemy to the crown claim you as hostage?” Uncle Stannis continued coldly.

Pursing his lips, Steffon lowered his eyes as he stared aimlessly at the table.

He had been careful, had carried a knife around with him and was certain to avoid as many of the dangers as he could, but that was not enough he knew.

“Your gallivanting around without a care, much as your father did in his youth, could have dire consequences for those around you.” Uncle Stannis ground out.

Steffon felt his jaw tighten in fury, green eyes cold as he looked as him. Stannis looked satisfied that his insult had landed, and Steff swallowed his anger. He had thought himself above the careless whims of youth, of being ruled by his emotions, but Steff was learning to his detriment that he had not removed the impulses that had governed Harry Potter.

“I was not _gallivanting_ uncle,” he replied sharply. “Nor did I consider my _wanderings_ something little to be demeaned.”

“Your _wanderings_ were careless and everything Robert would have –”

“_I am not my father_,” Steffon seethed, rising to his feet, palms flat on the table. Lord Varys was shuffling about, perhaps seeking to intervene, and Ser Barristan was moving closer to Steff’s side. He had eyes only for his uncle, spots of colour high on his cheeks, and Steffon was viciously satisfied to note that Stannis was angered as well.

“My lords–” Varys attempted to interrupt.

“…and for all your dislike of him, _nuncle_, you seem keen on comparing me to the king you consider to be failing at his duties.”

“And _what_ would you consider a prince who mingles with the smallfolk and cares naught for the life others would die to preserve?” Stannis replied scathingly.

Steffon felt Ser Barristan stiffen, hand tightening on the pommel of his sword. Lord Varys was nervously tittering, eyes darting between Stannis and Steffon.

“What is a prince if he does not know his subjects?” Steffon retorted.

The air was tense and the silence could be cut through with Valyrian steel. Stannis was grinding his teeth furiously, and a petty part of Steff hoped he would grind them to dust.

“Perhaps it would be best to reconvene at another time,” Varys suggested. “I find that cooler heads make for better conversation.”

Without waiting, Steffon turned sharply and stalked to the exit, startling Ser Arys as he hurried outside for some air. Both knights were shadowing his footsteps as Steffon led them to the godswood. Rarely did people enter this part of the keep, preferring the many walkways of the gardens to the open space overlooking the bay. There would be whispers of the crown prince seeking the godswood, and Steffon knew that he would have to visit the castle sept and make a show of his devotion.

The air in the godswood was cooler, a breeze from the Blackwater ruffling his curls as Steff sat stiffly on the bench, carrying with it the cloying scent of lavender and lillies. He was seething, pride smarting from the insults Stannis had paid him.

_What does he know_, he thought viciously, _he who rewarded the man who fed them with his choice of fingers_.

Stewing in his anger, he ignored the crunch of footsteps until he felt the man take a seat.

“Forgive my insolence, Prince Steffon, but I daresay you have upset your uncle.” Varys said.

Smothering the scoff that dearly wanted to emerge, Steffon remained quiet.

“He worries for you,” Varys told him, “and Lord Stannis was quite, _fearful_, I should say, over your wellbeing.”

“I suppose you did what you could to alleviate his concerns, my lord.” Steffon said dryly.

“Naturally,” Varys replied lightly, “though I find that some can be unwilling to listen.”

They were silent for quite some time; Steff glanced around the godswood and noted that they were alone but for the white cloaks of the Kingsguard at the entrance. The spymaster was too wily to allow himself to be watched, and Steff was almost certain that the godswood was truly devoid of any possible listeners.

“Who do you serve, my lord?” Steffon asked after some time. “Knights serve their lords, servants are sworn to keeps and Houses, all are beholden to the King.” Turning his head to gaze at Varys, Steffon pierced him with his emerald gaze. “Who does an eunuch from Essos serve?”

“I serve the realm,” Varys said solemnly, “at the king’s pleasure.”

Lips twisted, Steffon felt Varys’s gaze on him when he replied, “Protector of the Realm.”

He had perhaps said too much. The eunuch was a dangerous creature, he knew, aware of the secrets of all those in his vicinity and unearthing them as they became useful to his plans.

“I have watched kings and princes for nearly five-and-ten years,” Varys began quietly.

“Not quite so long in the eyes of others,” Steffon muttered, gaze drawn to Ser Barristan’s cloak.

Tilting his head in acknowledgement, Varys pursed his lips. "Often, I find that treading the path of the past can be a soothing endeavour.”

“Shall we let history repeat itself, my lord?”

“Did you not know, my prince? History is remade in the image of the victor.” Varys smiled.

Steffon’s mouth twisted in agreement, green eyes unseeing as he thought of past histories.

Varys had risen to his feet, arms tucked into his velvet sleeves. “A parting gift, Prince Steffon.”

Steffon glanced at the eunuch, noting the solemnity that lined his face. Lord Varys was an accomplished mummer, but for once Steff did not feel as if he was seeing the mask presented to the world. It was a mask still, he knew, but one that was far more vulnerable than he expected.

“A wise man would build on the past, yet know when it is necessary to remake the mould beneath the glory.”

“That was almost blunt, my lord,” Steffon quipped.

A smile was his only answer, bright and false as all things were in this city. A spider never truly rests, and as Steffon dismissed the bald eunuch, his thoughts fell on the city once more, haunted as they were by ghosts.

* * *

It would take several weeks before Steffon felt comfortable enough to enter the city. Uncle Stannis had been stiff in his greetings for a sennight and the boy had been equally immovable. They had neither apologized nor acknowledged what occurred between them, but at some point Stannis had seemingly moved on; Steffon did not expect the man to truly have forgotten – he held onto such grievances far more than was healthy.

In response to his defiance, Ser Barristan had increased his hours in the training yard. They were far more brutal, the knight driving him harder after remarking on the likelihood of Steffon refraining from his travels.

Steffon often went to bed on trembling legs, arms aching from the repetitive patterns Ser Barristan put him through Miraculously, his parents had remained uninformed about his excursions, and Steff remained quiet for the most part, only speaking up to assuage his mother. One of her handmaids had found Steff in his bath and feared the boy dead.

Cersei had raged at Ser Barristan, at Robert, at Steffon himself when he told her he requested the increased lessons. Even Joff was not spared her rage when the young boy piped up about his desire to spend more hours on the sparring grounds.

Steffon had not breathed a word of complaint about Barristan’s lessons; the strenuous work had driven him to the point of exhaustion and alleviated his nightmares for the first few days. They had returned with a viciousness that often left him breathless.

It was the same scene most of the time, the crowned head of a creature of ice, blue eyes gazing malevolently in the distance. Once, he’d dreamt of a clash of armies, blood sprayed on the pristine snow, watching helplessly as the fallen soldiers rose and attacked their own, eyes glowing blue.

He woke from those with his magic crackling beneath his skin, surging, but not yet accessible to him. He felt a sense of loss keenly in those moments – awake and plagued with thoughts of ice creatures, smallfolk and kingdoms of enemies – he mourned his inability to wield it as he once had been able to. It was always there, just out of reach, and Steff had spent countless nights frustrated at the reality.

Magic had not completely died out in Westeros, but it was sparse and not nearly strong enough.

At times, he wistfully thought of how life might have been had he lived during the Age of Heroes. Perhaps they were not wizards like those he had known at Hogwarts, but Bran the Builder, Durran Godsgrief, Garth Greenhand and Lann the Clever were larger than life figures that he would swear held a touch of magic to them.

The nightmares held sleep at bay, and Steff was utterly exhausted by the end of his day. Thankfully, they had slowed in frequency after the first week, and Steff was able to sleep through the night more oft than not.

Ser Barristan had been concerned over his appearance yet Steffon’s stubbornness had won out. He had pushed himself in his lessons and pushed forth his plan to continue to visit the city. The knight had stared at Steffon before nodding his assent, removing the guards Uncle Stannis assigned and agreeing on the condition that Barristan accompanied him.

Father would not know, he was certain; Uncle Stannis and he clashed far too often and the king was like to ignore his heir’s wanderings if Stannis made him aware simply to spite his brother.

Lord Arryn was the other option, but Steff was disinclined to listen to the Lord Hand and knew Ser Barristan would defer to father.

They had set off three weeks after his talk with Lord Varys, Steff finally adjusting to the rigors of his new schedule. Much of his time was spent wandering Flea Bottom; he’d not seen Gendry again, and the thought of a guarded nobleman had scared off some of the inhabitants. Though they wore hooded cloaks, the old knight’s sword was a visible deterrent.

They had been walking along the Street of Sisters this day, cloaks discarded as Steffon had wheedled his way to the Sept of Baelor. The king had been in the midst of entertaining and had waved Steffon off. Mother would most likely be furious when she realized, but for now Steff moved without a care to the Dragonpit, Ser Barristan to his left and several guards lurking in the shadows.

The Dragonpit was a ruin; an ancient relic of a time when dragons roamed the skies and magic was not a complete mystery, when Targaryens had lived amongst the clouds and earned their reputations as gods amongst men.

Steff missed the thrill of flying, had felt the short moment of joy flying on dragonback brought Harry Potter.

That the Targaryens had lost their dragons did not surprise him. A dragon is not to be chained, and except for their time in the Triwizard Tournament, dragons in the magical world had freely roamed their reserves.

“What would have become of this place,” Steffon mused, “had Aegon the Unlikely been successful at Summerhall?”

The clinking of armour alerted him to Ser Barristan’s movements before he felt the knight behind him. He no longer tensed at the intrusion on his space, Barristan having been a part of his life since his rebirth.

“Rebuilt, I’d imagine. Or perhaps they would do away with it.”

There was a note of hesitance in his voice as Steffon gazed up at the blackened spears that had once formed the dome. “Speak freely, Ser, for we are alone at the moment.”

He had warily glanced around – as if he could spot Varys’s little birds – before answering, “Is it wise, Prince Steffon, to openly admire Targaryen relics?”

“Mayhaps not, though we can hardly do away with something of this size,” he said wryly. “Dragon skulls can be hidden, but the Targaryens built this city Ser, and it is not something one can easily forget.”

_Not when the king himself used Targaryens to make his claim_, he thought. If there was one thing to be said of the man, Robert Baratheon was determined to ignore all that came with the former dragonlords.

“Tell me of Prince Rhaegar,” Steffon requested. He would not have a better opportunity, he knew, nor was he like to hear an unbiased account of the Last Dragon, but Barristan was his best option at knowing of the man the realm had loved.

The knight looked surprised and then wary at his request, but Steffon refused to give in under his gaze.

“The Prince is long dead, Your Grace.”

“Aye, but I would have the truth of him. I am not my father to rage about him.” Steffon told him.

Ser Barristan was quiet for some time. Steffon allowed him to gather his thoughts, knowing the Kingsguard would not deny him, not when Steff had shown himself to be far more reasonable concerning his Valyrian relations.

“He was a quiet prince,” the knight told him, voice soft in reminiscence. “Gentle and bookish. He was not fond of fighting, though he wielded sword and shield and excelled at it. He excelled at all of his pursuits, truly, but he was more fond of his harp.” The knight cleared his throat, eyes fogged with memories of the past.

“You mourn him still,” Steffon noted.

“There are a great many who mourn what could have been.”

Ser Barristan’s blue eyes had cleared, gazing at Steffon with a clarity that startled the younger boy. He opened his mouth, though Steffon waved off any words. Truth was not something the prince was freely given, and he cherished it more as Steffon than he had as Harry.

“I should like to head back, Ser, else Joff will hoard the desserts.”

Ser Barristan merely inclined his head, turning to lead them back to the keep.

He had heard the whispers during his time in Flea Bottom, had seen the merchants of Visenya’s Hill utter foul curses at red cloaks and gold cloaks alike, lamenting the loss of the dragons in their cups.

_Usurper_, they called his father. Quietly in the streets of King;s Landing, but the epithet remained. Robert was beloved of those he gave his coin to, but their disdain would resurface when the coffers ran dry and they remembered. It was Rhaegar they loved, their Silver Prince who sang so sweetly for them, his final song a tragedy capped by the drunkard sitting atop his throne.

* * *

Steffon’s eighth nameday was celebrated with a massive feast, the nobles of court bringing gifts to garner favour with the crown prince. Lord Rykker gifted him with a set of hunting knives from Tobho Mott’s shop, a book from Lord Stokeworth on Aegon the Unlikely’s Treatises, several gifts of gold. Lord Staunton had returned from a voyage to the Free Cities and brought Steff a cyvasse board, a popular game amongst Volantene nobles.

The king had insisted on a joust, a gathering of mainly Crownlands and Stormlands noblemen and knights from the Reach and Riverlands, all keen on testing their mettle and winning the generous purse the crown was offering.

Joff and Steff had sat in the Royal Box, eagerly watching the knights breaking lances against each other. Uncle Jaime and Ser Barristan had entered the lists, and the two princes were enthusiastically cheering the Kingsguard as they tore through the lists. They had broken six lances against one another in the finals, and on their seventh pass, Ser Barristan had thrust his lance in the space beneath Uncle Jaime’s elbow, catching him square in the side as he sent the golden knight spinning into the dirt. Steffon had watched as Joffrey leapt to his feet in joy. Mother had been sour over Uncle Jaime’s loss, but Steff had dutifully kept his brother close by and well away from her angry scowls.

The queen had planned for seven courses; a thick soup of venison with a crusty hot sweetbread, salads of spinach and apples with crushed pine nuts sprinkled on top. Lamprey pie followed, honeyed ham and buttered trout, carrots and mushrooms seared in lemon sauce. There was a roasted pheasant, stuffed full with sour cheese from Essos. By the time dessert had been served, lemon cakes and fireberries and a baked pie smelling strongly of cinnamon, Steff was full to the brim.

It was just his luck that he had left the feast about an hour into the dancing. There was wine aplenty, the liquor flowing from the king’s cellar, Dornish Red and Arbor Gold and sweet Summerwine. Steffon’s presence would not be necessary for the court to continue their celebrations, and he and Joff were hustled off to bed by one of the maids. Ser Arys and Ser Boros followed after, each posted at the prince’s doors now they had moved out of the nursery.

They had walked past a servant with a plate of leftovers, presumably carrying it to the kitchens.

“What’s to be done with the remains?” Steff suddenly asked.

The servant looked flustered, “My Prince?”

“The leftovers from the feast,” Steff added, “what is to be done with them?”

“Th-they are to be t-thrown out, Prince Steffon,” the man said nervously.

Steffon frowned at the notion of wasted food, remembering the half-starved people he had met in Flea Bottom. The man was fidgeting, face pale and arms trembling as he held the food.

“Give it to the smallfolk,” Steff ordered, green eyes glinting in determination.

“M-my prince?” the man asked, voice wavering.

“Have it handed out to the people of King’s Landing. There is no need for them to starve while the royal family throws such lavish feasts. It would be a waste of perfectly good food.”

The maid was looking at him queerly. He cared not for her thoughts, these were to be his people and he would not have them starve. Memories of Christmas dinners with the Dursleys flashed through his mind, and Steffon set his jaw in determination.

“Tell the rest that the food is to be distributed, else I shall be greatly displeased,” Steff warned.

He waited until the man gave a nod of assent, bowing with the dishes in his arms, before Steff tugged Joffrey along to their rooms.

“Why did you do that?” Joff asked curiously as they entered his rooms. They had dismissed the maid, as Steff insisted on seeing his brother to his bed.

Joffrey stood before him, head tilted as he waited for Steffon to answer.

“Would you like the people to go hungry, Joff?” Steffon stared silently at his brother, grabbing the younger boy’s hands. “We are princes of the realm. These people, all of them, are our people, and it is our duty to care for them.” They of all people could not afford to have thousands of displeased smallfolk on their hands.

“A king should be like a father to his people,” Joff added softly.

Smiling, Steffon squeezed his hands. “Just so.”

“You are more of a king than he is,” Joff said, green eyes solemn and earnest.

“Hush,” Steff whispered, “lest they think we two plan treason.” Giving the smaller boy a smile and ruffle of his hair, he left Joffrey to rest, Ser Arys standing outside his door.

Steffon’s actions had not gone unnoticed, not that he expected otherwise.

Lord Varys had looked oddly at him the next day, a knowing smile on his face, and Steffon was uncomfortably reminded of their conversation in the godswood.

_Look all you want, my lord_ he thought, straightening his spine. _I’ve nothing to hide_.

“Prince Steffon!” an oily voice called out, stopping Steffon as he walked to the training grounds. Ser Boros was shadowing him, a hand on the hilt of his sword as he stared impassively at the person.

Turning, he saw an unfamiliar man with lightly greying hair escorting Lady Arryn, his plum doublet going nicely with her sky blue gown. His eyes were gray-green, a cheery look to his face that belied the glint of something else in his gaze. Raising a brow, Steff stared at the man.

“My Prince,” Lady Arryn simpered, watery blue eyes turned in adoration to the man beside her. For once, Lady Arryn was not walking with her young child; she had refused all care for her son Robert and was always found near the boy. “Might I introduce Lord Petyr Baelish? He fostered at Riverrun and is a dear childhood friend.”

Smiling thinly, Steffon greeted the man. “From the Fingers, yes?”

There was a flash of displeasure in Lady Arryn’s gaze, though Steff was far more interested in the man before him.

His smile was entirely false as he replied, “Yes, a lowly part of the Vale, unfortunately.”

“Well met, my lord.”

“Petyr will be joining the council soon,” Lady Arryn boasted. “He has proven himself ever skilled with commerce.”

Looking at the smaller man, he stared at him in surprise. “Oh? My congratulations, Lord Baelish, it seems King’s Landing could use a man of your talents.”

Lord Baelish laughed him off, though his eyes did not smile. “Tis nothing, my prince. I am happy with my lot in Gulltown, an appointment to the council is not what I am here for.”

Lord Baelish walked alongside him, Lady Arryn on his other side and Ser Boros bringing up the rear. The man appeared pleasant, but something about him bothered Steffon. It was the eyes, most like; quite unnatural for someone so pleasant to not have feeling in his eyes as well.

“What brings you to the capital, Lord Baelish?” Steff asked. They were near the training grounds, and he was eager for a spar against Ser Aron.

“A meeting with Lord Arryn regarding finances,” Baelish smoothly said, a slight smile on his face. “Though I have been here for nigh on a year now.”

“Oh?” Steffon quirked his lip in amusement, “I am surprised we have not crossed paths beforehand.”

“An unfortunate error on my part,” Baelish added with a deprecating chuckle. “We have all heard of the good prince, even in the Fingers.”

_And now we get to the heart of the matter_, he thought.

“I hope you are not disappointed,” Steffon drolly stated, at the threshold of the training grounds. The sound of metal clashing against each other was like home to Steffon, though he doubted the man in front of him had ever held a sword.

“Not as of yet. My Prince,” Baelish bowed, a slightly mocking smile on his face, though he appeared pleasant to anyone else.

Smiling thinly, Steffon dismissed the two, turning to pick up a blunt sword.

The last thing he saw was the hint of a mockingbird, stitched onto the breast of Lord Baelish’s doublet.

* * *

Three moons before his ninth nameday, Steffon began to attend small council meetings. Cella and Tom were still in the nursery, being two and one, and he and Joff attempted to spend as much of their spare time with the young ones. Between lessons with the maesters, squiring for Ser Barristan, and his inclusion into the small council, Steff barely managed to find time for his youngest siblings. Joff was his most frequent companion, and it was only a matter of time before the younger boy began to join him in meetings to learn how the realm was being governed. 

To his dismay, Steffon had been forced to realize exactly how much work the small council did on the King’s behalf. Logically, Steffon had known his father was lax in his duties, but he did not expect that the man showed up to meetings only when Lord Arryn managed to convince him to attend; and that, according to Uncle Stannis, was rare still.

When Steffon had entered the small council and declared his intention to attend as many meetings as he could with his busy schedule, Uncle Stannis had given a sharp nod of approval.

Lord Arryn had been baffled, and Steffon was unwilling to allow anyone to attempt to dissuade him. “I am the Crown Prince, my lords. I would be remiss in my duties if I remained in ignorance of how the kingdom is governed. I should think that my interest in learning my future responsibilities would be to your benefit.”

Uncle Stannis had clearly approved, as had surprisingly Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Varys.

“It gladdens me, my prince, when the young are attentive to their duty.” The Master of Whispers craftily included.

“Indeed, Your Grace,” the old maester wheezed, adjusting his massive chain. “Such interest is to the benefit of the realm.”

The matter had been settled, and Steffon was introduced to the efforts of the small council to govern Westeros after two wars in the span of six years.

It was not going as smoothly as he thought.

Perhaps it was the paranoia that came with his station, or merely lifelong experience of being kept in the dark, but there were certain things he knew that others would not wish a prince to be aware of. The business of the small council was one of those things.

A king leaving his kingdom in the hands of his advisors was practically unheard of, and Steffon was seething at the thought of his father’s carelessness.

_Had you not wanted the throne, Father, perhaps you should have worked to avoid it_, he thought darkly.

Aerys Targaryen had left the realm with a full treasury. He had been mad, but the man was not overly frivolous in his spending.

Only nine years had passed since Robert Baratheon’s coronation, and already the crown was millions of dragons in debt. Much of that debt was owed to Casterly Rock – and how Steffon had raged at the thought – with the rest made up of loans from Highgarden, the Faith, and the Iron Bank, smaller loans from other Houses as well.

Lord Arryn had no explanation for the crown’s debt beyond, “What Robert wishes to spend, he will. None can gainsay the king in this matter.”

Steffon had stormed to his father’s rooms in a rage, ignoring the guards’ call of warning.

He stalked past the king’s solar, useless thing that it was, and the sound of moans coming from beyond the curtains deepened his rage.

Had he been thinking properly, Steffon would most likely have avoided this course. But he let his fury consume him, caring not for the consequences of disrupting the king.

Yanking open the curtains, Steff tapped his foot impatiently, a short shriek from the whore alerting his father to his presence.

Robert fumbled for covering; the sheets lifted to the whore’s chest as Steffon stood there, a cold look in his eyes, apathetic as his father grabbed at a dressing gown.

He stared at his son in a rage, “What is the meaning of this?”

“Father,” Steffon said coldly, “I thought we could have a small chat before luncheon.”

Stormy blue eyes stared angrily at Steffon, but the boy remained unfazed. They were bloodshot, and the stench of wine let him know that the king had begun his drinking earlier than usual.

“Leave us,” Robert called, waving off the whore.

Steffon turned sharply on his heel, feet leading him to the chair in front of his father’s desk. There were stag heads on the wall, relics from the king’s previous hunts. Baratheon black and gold dotted everywhere, with tapestries of battles and hunts to imprint his presence in the royal apartments.

His father heaved himself into his seat, pouring himself a cup of wine. Part of Steffon bemoaned the state of the man; no longer was he the chiselled warrior king that had tossed his sons into the air, he was now better referred to as the Whoremonger King, steadily growing in fat.

Steff ignored the whore as she made her way out of the room, withholding his snarl of disgust as he saw the king track his eyes after her.

“What now?” Robert asked, gulping at his wine. He had poured a cup for Steffon, but the boy refused to drink on principle. _I’ll not become a drunkard like you_, he thought.

“The realm is in debt, Father,” Steffon said pleasantly, green eyes cold, “millions of dragons.”

Scoffing, the king took a sip of his drink. “Counting coppers, that’s what you came here for?”

Steffon had to remind himself that he was only eight; eight and not fully in tune with his magic and completely dwarfed by the king in front of him. There was no point of being angry, the man simply did not care, but thousands had died to put this bloody crown on his head.

“You are the king,” Steffon pressed. “Counting coppers is part of your duties,” he mockingly added.

“That’s what the small council is for,” Robert waved away.

“The small council can only do as the king wishes,” Steffon stressed.

“Aye, and if the king wishes to throw a tourney than they had better indulge him. What is the point of being king if you cannot hold tourney’s as you like?”

“You had a full treasury,” Steffon hissed, unable to contain his rage. “Aerys left his coffers full and you’ve gone and squander—”

A sharp sting cut off the rest of his words, and Steff reared back in surprise. The king’s eyes were stormy, anger clouding them as he raised a pointed finger at Steffon.

His father had never raised a hand to him, but he should not have been as surprised as he was. The king was drunk, bereft of his entertainment and listening to his heir speak of the glories of the Targaryen king.

“Never mention that man,” Robert seethed. “Sit on the council all you like, what the King wills the Hand will see to it.”

Steffon raised his chin in defiance; eyes cool as he looked in at the drunkard that had sired him with thinly veiled disgust. “By your leave, Your Grace.”

Robert had just waved him off when Steffon exited the room, cheek purpling. His mother would no doubt rage at the man, but Steffon could not be bothered to deal with either of them.

He spent the following weeks sitting at the king’s seat in the council room, face stoic as the lords looked warily at him. All who questioned his injury were told it came from an overly enthusiastic spar, and an angry Joff had agreed to pass on the lie.

They all knew, the lords having heard that he emerged from his father’s apartments with a swiftly reddening cheek, but none had dared to bring it up. Only Lord Arryn, and he had given up when faced with hard green eyes.

The council members took to discussing the governance of the realm as if he were not present. Steffon had a quill and sheafs of parchment next to him, quickly jotting down notes on all manner of business as he gazed at the people around him.

They spoke of trade agreements, taxation, the king’s newest tourney, and the summer harvest and food distribution, roaming bandits in the Riverlands. Town charters were discussed and tabled for later perusal, merchants asking the crown for loans to expand their ventures.

It had taken four kingdoms united in common cause to place his father on the throne, the alliance that had broken the Targaryens, and still Steffon could not see evidence of it. Not in King’s Landing, nor anywhere the king’s favour was present, but for his affections and reminiscence.

The council consisted of his uncles – Renly promising to join them as soon as he was through with his lord’s progress – and former Targaryen Kingsguard, Maester, and Master of Whispers. Lord Arryn was the only member from the Rebellion, and Lord Baelish had been assisting the council.

Three Stormlanders, two Valemen, an Essosi, and a maester who might as well have been from the Westerlands; there was nothing but affection for his father tying the North to them, and the Riverlands were involved only by blood ties. No seats of honour at the king’s table for his closest allies, no positions for the only kingdom that had come out in force for their liege. Lord Stark might look upon Robert Baratheon as a brother, but his bannermen had not reaped any rewards from that affection.

Nor had those of his father’s former enemies. The Reach was underrepresented, not a single House holding a position of prominence at court but for Ser Arys, and Dorne had been placated by Lord Arryn, but not brought back into the fold. The Crownlands had a Kingsguard, but none of the lords of the Narrow Sea were flourishing as they had under Targaryen rule.

It was alarming, how fractured the realm seemed. There were Lannisters in every position he could think of. Squires, pages, courtiers; everywhere he looked in the castle he saw a sea of veritable gold. It was a disaster in the making, and Steffon was baffled that Lord Arryn had allowed it to occur, knowing the dangers a king faced when reliant on meagre alliances.

_This is what they wish me to inherit_, he thought darkly. _A realm fracturing at the seams, held together only by affection for the man they remembered the king to be_.

There was much and more to be done; the council could discuss the realms governance, could plan as they wished, but Steffon would have to put his own plans in place to secure his rule.

* * *

“Come on Joff,” Steffon shouted. “Loser shall waive his dessert privileges for a moon.” 

Laughing at the look on his brother’s face, Steff dug his heels into the flank of his horse, Twitch responding with enthusiasm. The spotted palfrey had reminded him of Pig’s enthusiasm, and Joff had declared it a twitchy beast. The name had stuck, and the poor filly did not respond to any other name.

Grandfather Tywin’s invitation to the Rock had come years earlier, eager to meet the legacy of his House. It had taken Lord Arryn the better part of a year to plan the royal journey, as the court itself would reside in the keep for six moons, and Mother had waylaid any arrangements until Tommen’s second nameday.

Steff had complied with his mother’s orders to change into a clean doublet, Baratheon gold with the black crowned stag stitched onto the breast, and with a matching set, Joff and he had quickly set off.

Casterly Rock loomed in the distance, glinting gold under the glittering sun, the two brother’s gleefully riding full speed toward the gates of the Lion Mouth and the King’s party. Ser Arys and Ser Boros rode alongside the brothers, restless from long hours spent in the queen’s monstrous wheelhouse. Myrcella and Tommen, at four and three, were kept close to mother, but Joffrey and Steffon were older and bigger, able to sit a horse for hours and unwilling to remain cooped up when the possibility of exploring the Westerlands presented itself.

Shouts rang out along the line, knights urging their mounts into position as the two princes reached the king’s side. Robert Baratheon had gained weight in the past few years, but the man was content to sit a horse and enter the Rock as expected of a warrior king.

Steffon trotted his horse to the king’s right, slightly behind his father as Joff mirrored his action. Sending the boy a slight smirk at his loss of dessert, he looked forward to see the honour guard Lord Lannister arranged.

Scores of Lannister men lined their path, helmets on and red cloaks swaying in the evening breeze.

The Lion’s Mouth was everything Uncle Jaime had said; tall and strong, it was a veritable fortress that was wide enough to allow twenty men to ride across. He itched to race Twitch up the steps, rough at the bottom before smoothing out into crafted stone.

Lord Tywin and his household awaited them at the top, the sea of golden heads lead Steff to assume he would meet the entirety of the Lannister family, all bowing at once as the king came upon them.

“Your Grace,” Lord Tywin began once ordered to rise. “Welcome to Casterly Rock.”

“Lord Tywin,” Father grunted, setting off to greet the rest.

The king was in a surly mood, one like to endure until the feast that night, and the queen breezed forward with a slight smile, Myrcella and Tommen clinging to her skirts.

“Father,” she said pleasantly. “It is good to see you well.”

“Cersei,” Tywin responded, a slight tilt of the head to acknowledge her greeting.

“Steffon. Joffrey. My loves, come meet your grandfather.” Mother beckoned them forward, and Steffon got his first look at the man Westeros feared.

Tywin Lannister was tall and slender for his age, with broad shoulders and blonde whiskers. His eyes were a piercing green, lighter than any of theirs, with flecks of gold visible.

“Grandfather,” Steffon murmured with a slight bow, Joff doing the same from his left. They made a striking pair, he had been told, these brothers of black and gold; both tall but Steff broad where Joff was slender, similar piercing eyes of Lannister green and a synchronicity to their actions that spoke of a closeness between the two.

Lord Tywin did not smile, from what he knew of the man, but Steff saw his cold gaze thaw slightly as he looked upon his grandchildren. There was a hint of the barest smile as Cella curtsied and Tom clumsily copied his elder brothers.

They were met with the other Lannisters of Casterly Rock; Uncle Kevan and his wife Lady Dorna, their children Lancel, Martyn and Willem, Lady Darlessa and Uncle Tygett’s son Tyrek, Aunt Genna with Lord Emmon and their sons Cleos, Lyonel, Tion and Walder. Shyly hidden behind Aunt Genna was a little girl they introduced as Joy Hill, Uncle Gerion’s natural daughter.

Steffon had pleasantly greeted them all, an extra smile on his face for little Joy, who seemed a sweet child. Joff had warily introduced himself to the other children, Tyrek and Red Walder being of an age with him.

Behind them, dwarfed by the people in front, stood Tyrion Lannister. Short, with stunted legs, Tyrion was nothing like he expected. Steffon had heard much about the youngest Lannister sibling from both Mother and Uncle Jaime – differing accounts that he had sifted through. She disliked her brother on principle, and Steff had told Joff to ignore her words, laced as they were with disdain.

“Uncle Tyrion,” Steffon greeted. Yanking Joff forward, he felt Tommen toddle over to him, forcing Mother to let go of the boy. Cella was to his left, hand clinging to his doublet, and Steff sent a smile down at the little princess.

“Nephew, be welcome to Casterly Rock,” Tyrion said with an exaggerated bow. Cella and Tom began to giggle, and Steffon sent a thankful smile at his uncle. “And who might you be?”

“This little princess is Myrcella,” Steffon introduced, “Joffrey and Tommen to my right.”

Tommen gave Tyrion a wide toothy smile, and Joff allowed himself a brief smile and a murmur of “Uncle,” before grabbing onto the wandering child.

A shadow fell over them, and Steffon saw his uncle with a suddenly bright grin. _Please let it be Uncle Jaime_, he thought, though his hopes were dashed immediately.

“Sweet sister, I cannot believe four well-mannered children came out of you. Something in the water down at King’s Landing,” Tyrion beamed.

Joffrey bit down on his lip to keep from smiling, and Steffon could only imagine the look on his mother’s face.

“Still around, are you,” Cersei responded coolly.

“Little brother,” Uncle Jaime interjected, “have you come to greet your favourite brother?”

“For there to be favourites there would have to be more than one of you,” Uncle Tyrion quipped, before moving forward to greet his brother.

“Come along children,” Mother called.

They were led inside the keep, the monstrosity that was Casterly Rock laid bare before them. Everything was gold; the walls were covered in it, the trinkets, the lamps were tinged gold. Lannister lions were carved in gold, placed at every corner.

_Hear me roar_, Steffon thought wryly.

Their rooms were splendid; not as spacious as the royal apartments in the Red Keep, but large enough for them to feel comfortable and not slighted. Gold was all over the room, decorations of red carrying the golden lion. The bedding had been done in red and gold, and Steffon was strongly reminded of the Gryffindor common room but with an abundance of wealth on display.

The presence of the court necessitated their stay in apartments reserved for the royal family, and Steff was placed next to Joffrey, with Myrcella and Tommen in the rooms closest to theirs.

The evening’s feast had been magnificent; Grandfather Tywin had spared no expenses, showing off the wealth of the West with an array of meals. Pumpkin soup and Mother’s favoured creamy chestnut soup, with smoked duck breast and lentils, roasted heron, Gammon steaks, fingerfish crisped in breadcrumbs. There was a large boar with an apple in its mouth, skin crispy and gleaming with sauces; platters of meat surrounded it, venison, pies of bacon and onions, skewers of chicken seared in honey and garlic. There were varying wines across the room, Arbor Gold and Dornish Red, a sweet Summerwine and Iced Wine for the king to drink.

Steffon sat beside his brother with Lancel to his left. He had been given a cup of Dornish Red; the sour taste filling his mouth, as he took small sips in between bites of buttered quail.

Uncle Tyrion had joined them when the dancing had begun, entertaining the younger children with ribald tales. Steffon and Joffrey were expected to dance with the daughters of their grandfather’s bannermen, and he took to the task with a polite smile on his face. He had opened the dance with Myrielle Lannister, a tall lady several years older than him. Joff had been dancing with the niece of Ser Benedict Broom, and cousin Lancel had been enticed into a dance with a maiden from House Jast.

Seated next to his uncle, Steffon hid a sour look behind his glass of wine as he noticed the king’s attentions. Lord Tywin was sitting stiffly next to the king, completely unbothered by the shameful display next to him. King Robert sat in the seat of honour, a cup of wine in one hand and a serving woman’s bosom in the other. Mother had left the high table to share a few dances, taking a turn around the floor with Uncle Jaime and cousin Daven, but she had endured the king’s wandering attentions in front of her family’s loyal bannermen.

Joff was sitting stiffly next to him, smile wiped from his face as he noticed their father outwardly shame his wife.

“Don’t look so surprised, brother. He’ll not hide his whoring here,” Steffon said bitterly.

“He is in her family home, seated next to his goodfather,” Joff hissed in reply.

Uncle Tyrion’s mismatched eyes flickered toward the two, wry smile on his face. “Worry not, dear nephews. Our king can do as he pleases; so long as there are three of you to secure the legacy, his goodfather will turn a blind eye.”

Curiously, Steffon tilted his head toward his uncle, noticing a flash of disdain as he looked at the high table. “Outwardly shaming the Lannister name warrants nothing from Lord Tywin?”

Uncle Tyrion laughed sardonically, face pulled in a wretched smile. “Mayhaps he will order the king to clean out the drains of King’s Landing, that seems a favoured method.”

Joff choked on his sweetmilk, laughter making him spray milk. Steffon threw a handkerchief at him, laughing alongside Uncle Tyrion who looked especially pleased at the reaction.

They spent the remainder of the night in their uncle’s company; Tyrion was full of wit and a treasure trove of historical facts. That he seemed inclined to tell stories of famous knights only endeared him to his adventurous nephews, both boys spending the night roaring in laughter at the various tales.

* * *

Lord Tywin’s solar was an intimidating room, gold and red flashing in his sight with none of the comfort the Gryffindor common room had provided. 

This was the first time he had entered the solar in the moon’s turn they had been here. Much of their time was spent with their Lannister cousin’s, Uncle Kevan having brought his brood to reside at the Rock for the duration of the king’s visit and Aunt Genna gladly leaving the Riverlands for home.

He had enjoyed his time with them, though he still spent the most time with Joff. Lancel was his elder, but the boy was far too arrogant for Steffon’s taste, and he far enjoyed his time with the younger twins Martyn and Willem.

Lord Tywin was standing standing over a table, a map of Westeros placed on it. It was similar to those used when planning military campaigns, and Steff felt a thrill of excitement upon seeing the pieces denoting the Great Houses.

For all that Tywin Lannister was a monster, he _was_ a brilliant tactician, and Steffon was determined to learn as much as he could.

He remained silent, knowing that patience was the key when it came to the Old Lion, eyes studying the map to make sense of the pieces.

There was a trout in the North: that was the first thing he noticed, as out of place as it was. The Vale held a stag and wolf piece in the midst of falcons. _The Rebellion_, he thought. There was a lack of trout pieces in the Eyrie, and with a frown Steffon noticed that Riverrun held only trout pieces. There was a wolf in the Stormlands, and sweeping his eyes south, Steffon noticed dragons and lions in the capital. There was a distinct lack of the Martell sun, and the roses were centred in Highgarden.

_This is before the Rebellion_, he thought with dawning realization. _When Grandfather was still Hand and Westeros had not yet gone to hell_.

“What do you see,” Tywin’s voice cut in.

Frowning, Steffon studied the board, recalling his lessons and everything Uncle Stannis had told him of the Rebellion.

“This is before the war,” he offered, “years, at least.”

Tywin remained silent, and Steffon racked his brain for any insight he could give. Pointing at the Vale, “Father and Lord Eddard Stark were fostering with Lord Arryn, creating the alliance between three Lords Paramount and cementing it with Father’s betrothal to Lady Lyanna.

“Lord Stark’s elder brother Brandon was betrothed to Lady Catelyn Tully, so that brings the Riverlands into the alliance.”

Looking once more to the capital, Steffon picked up one of the dragons and turned it northward. “If I were the king, I should worry about four regions entering into an alliance with one another.”

Tilting his head, Steffon glanced at the southern regions of Westeros, hiding a frown as he stared at the roses. Lord Tywin had not yet spoken, and Steffon took that as encouragement to continue.

“Highgarden has historically been loyal to the Targaryens,” Steff began.

“Loyalty can be easily lost,” Tywin countered.

“Not always,” Steffon returned, frowning as he glanced once more at the Riverlands. “Unlike the Riverlands, House Tyrell owes their hold of the Reach to the Targaryens, and there are several houses with competing blood claims. The Tully’s have never had to contend with a unified region.”

“They owe their position to the dragons,” Tywin simply said.

“Loyalty can be easily lost,” Steff shot back. “Especially under pressure from an alliance between two of its neighbours.”

Grandfather had given him a curt nod, before gesturing once more to the map. He tapped his finger on the Westerlands, hand skimming the lion pieces placed there, before piercing Steffon with his gaze.

“You have two pieces to offer, an heir and a daughter.”

_Clear contender for Father of the Year_, he thought sarcastically.

“Join the alliance of lords,” Steffon offered immediately.

Seeing his grandfather’s raised brow he elaborated, “There are two regions bordering the West.” Pointing to the capital, Steffon tapped the lion. “The Reach are loyal to the dragons, and they would not dare attack the home of the Hand. A powerful group of four lords bound by blood and affection _would_ be able to.”

Grandfather Tywin continued to stare at him, and Steffon had the feeling that he was missing something.

Staring once more at the board, he tried to remember what he knew of the Houses in question. Lord Stark had younger sons available for an alliance, but grandfather would feel insulted at such an alliance. There was Uncle Jaime, but only House Tully had daughters of marriageable age. He winced lightly, knowing Lady Arryn and imagining her married to his uncle.

_No_, he thought. _That’s not right_. Lord Tyrell had daughters, older than his mother and uncle, but they had married within to strengthen their position.

The Martells remained unattached to any other kingdom, having been loyal to the crown once brought into fold, and it suddenly hit Steff like a bundle of bricks.

“The crown,” he whispered. “You wanted mother to be queen.”

Looking at his grandfather, Steffon noted that the man continued to remain silent as he picked up a trout and brought it to the West.

“The Prince was not betrothed, not yet. If Mother became his wife, you would have to work to eliminate any threats to her position.” He pointed at the trout he had just moved. “Lord Tully’s daughters would be split between the North and West, leaving him unable to move against either.

“You would destabilize the alliance,” Steff said admiringly. It was brilliant: a foot in each camps, and Tywin would nip any treasonous whispers before they became a force like the Rebellion.

“Four kingdoms tied by blood would isolate the Arryns from any plotting if you remained tied to the crown,” he continued. It was all coming together now, and as horrifying as it had seemed, a part of him admired the level of planning that would take.

It was bold, doing something like that in the open. These alliances could not be hidden, and his grandfather had been shrewd enough to see it for what it was.

“Why Lord Arryn?” Grandfather asked.

“He stood to gain the most,” Steffon mused. “No alliances writ in blood, but two fosterlings who viewed him as another father. One of which was a potential candidate for the throne should there ever be another Great Council. A betrothal for Uncle Jaime would rob him of a chance to tie himself by blood.

“But,” he added, finger pointed at the capital as his hand picked up a lion piece, moving it deliberately to the Vale. “Should the crown alliance fail, Lord Arryn had an heir, a potential alliance that would tie five kingdoms by blood, leaving the king’s only allies to the south, and even then,” he shrugged, “loyalty can easily be lost. Especially in the face of a large threat.”

There was silence in the room, and Steffon looked at Lord Tywin. He had an approving glint in his eyes as he nodded at the prince.

“Marriages, blood,” Tywin stated. “They are the cornerstones of alliances in our world. Trade and wealth counts, but men would rather fight when there is a personal stake in a cause.”

Grandfather waved his arm at the map, gesturing to the North. “The death of their liege lord and his heir ensured that the North would answer their lord’s call.” Pointing to the Stormlands, “The dishonour of a betrothal, ties of kinship between two young lord’s.”

He understood, had witnessed the aftermath. Steffon only existed because of the success of the Rebellion. Joff and Cella and Tom only existed because of the Rebellion.

Westeros had been irreparably changed, and it all came down to a few marriages.

“You are the crown prince, Steffon.” Grandfather told him. “Your marriage will carry your reign, for good or ill. Your father had the allegiance of four kingdoms, and he bought the West with marriage.”

Frowning, Steffon gazed down at the map, mind lost in thought.

It had bothered him – _still did_ – to see women referred to as a commodity. He could only imagine Hermione’s reaction to Westeros, or her horror at how Steffon himself was adapting to the culture.

_She would flay me alive_, he thought sadly.

“I cannot ignore the alliance that brought Father to the throne.”

Lord Tywin gave him a nod of acknowledgement, pointing to the capital once more. “Some alliances are writ in sword and spears, others by quill and raven.”

* * *

They had spent more time together after their initial meeting. Steffon had seemingly passed whatever test his grandfather had deigned to hold, and the man had begun to rigorously tutor Steffon in the realities of kingship. Tywin’s years as Hand to King Aerys had been to Steffon’s advantage; his grandfather had made most of the decisions of the kingdoms, and was eager to ensure his blood continued on the throne 

Joff had joined them from time to time. Grandfather had looked in askance when the blond had first come to the solar with him.

“He is my brother. I would have him learn alongside me. If I am to be king, he shall be my hand.”

They had seen the Old Lion smile for once.

The boys usually sparred in the training grounds with Willem and Martyn, and Aunt Genna’s sons Tion and Red Walder were always willing to join them. Lancel had deemed himself too old to play at swords with boys, and Joff had taunted the boy for his fear of being bested by younger squires.

Ser Barristan had journeyed to Casterly Rock with them, leaving Ser Mandon with the Lord Hand.

In the midst of his lessons at-arms with the old knight, his tutoring with the maester had been instead taken over by his grandfather. They would remain at Casterly Rock for another moon turn, the Kingsguard already preparing the logistics of their departure.

Lord Tywin’s lessons typically occurred standing over the map of Westeros or seated at his table for a game of cyvasse. Grandfather was not overly fond of the game, but he had decided it was passable for teaching tactics, often quizzing him on past kings.

They had been sitting for hours; Steffon had spent the day drafting trade agreements between the Crown and the North. He had told grandfather of his hopes for an enlarged royal fleet, and the possibility of increasing trade with the North would allow him to bring them back into the fold.

They had spent the past sennight looking over the plans for the fleet; Harry Potter had not been overly aware of the world around him – a fact Steffon had often lamented – but his memories had provided vague recollections of improved trading vessels.

A galleon, it had been called, though Harry had preferred to refer to it as a pirate ship.

The plans had originally been drafted in the Red Keep, sheafs of parchment scattered about Steffon’s desk with drawings he had made. Bringing them to Casterly Rock had been difficult, as had keeping them secret in the keep, but Steff was certain Tywin Lannister’s self-interest in seeing his blood on the throne would secure his assistance.

It had paid off. Grandfather had overlooked the plans with his maester before giving Steffon an approving nod.

“This will change things,” he had said. “A costly endeavour, to be sure.”

Steffon had soured at that point; Aerys Targaryen’s treasury had not survived Robert Baratheon’s exorbitant lifestyle. Coin had been spent on frivolities, and Steffon would have the difficult task of seeing to it that they had what was necessary to build new ships.

“Aegon the Unlikely,” Lord Tywin stated.

Frowning, Steffon looked up at the man, cursing mentally when his inattention cost him a horse.

“They called him half-a-commoner. He had spent enough time around the smallfolk that he worked to improve their lot in life.”

“What did that cost him?” Grandfather asked, eyes not leaving the board.

“His lords bannermen,” Steff stated, moving a trebuchet in place. “They disliked the new laws that lessened their power.”

“His biggest failing?” he next asked.

Staring down at the board, Steffon pondered the question as he made his next move. “He allowed his children to break betrothal agreements with three Great Houses,” he stated softly.

Aegon V had married for love, and allowed that sentimentality to rule his decisions regarding family. Steffon did not blame the man, not truly – it was a noble endeavour, allowing his children to marry for love – but his actions had allowed his house to flounder.

“If a man cannot control his own family, what hope does he have of controlling his bannermen?”

Steffon hid the wry smile on his face.

“His lords did not fear him,” Lord Tywin pressed. “A king cannot afford to show weakness.”

“Is love a weakness?” Steff asked. “A man cannot rule on the basis of fear alone.”

“The masses are best ruled by fear; it is all they will respond to.” Tywin declared.

Chewing on his lip, Steffon pushed his army forward. “Until they decide there is something worth the price. Love wins devotion far better than fear,” he countered.

Scoffing, Lord Tywin moved his cavalry forward in response, angling them to circle his left flank. “Rhaegar was well loved and he lies beneath the Trident. What has that love gifted him?”

“Eternal devotion,” he stated evenly. Steff moved his trebuchet, risking a part of his army to corner his grandfather.

“Do not look to your predecessor in these matters,” Grandfather warned. “Rhaegar fought with the love of the smallfolk and he lost his war.”

_Am I to look to your example, then, Grandfather_, Steffon thought grimly. Lord Tywin was an able administrator, but the man had made far more enemies in his time as Lord Lannister.

Rhaegar Targaryen had proven himself a well-loved fool, insulting the lords of the kingdoms with his crowning at Harrenhall. Tywin Lannister was a butcher despised by the greater portion of the Seven Kingdoms. Robert Baratheon had the adoration of the smallfolk, the respect of several kingdoms, but he was squandering their loyalty.

_Be a bit of each, and neither at the same time_.

“Rhaegar Targaryen shirked his duty,” Steffon replied curtly.

Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna, and thousands had died for it. Hadn’t that been what they muttered across the kingdoms? _Father is the only one like to believe the worst of the man_, Steffon thought bitterly.

Steffon knew the rigours of duty; he had done everything that was expected of him, in both lives. Had walked into the clearing and willingly surrendered himself to death. Had sat amongst men far older than him attempting to learn more than they wished in a bid to secure his family’s reign.

He would never have done as the Silver Prince had, shaming his wife and inciting a rebellion – not with the lines so clearly drawn and a madman on the throne.

No. Rhaegar had been adored by the people, yet chose his personal desire over the lives of thousands.

“He played the game of thrones and lost.” Tywin responded, eyeing Steff as if he were a particularly interesting creature. “When you play the game of thrones, you either win or you die.”

Bile filled his throat at those words.

Bad enough he enjoyed his time with his grandfather, but Steffon could not escape the reminders of all the man had done to secure his blood on the throne. Countless innocents murdered, babes born of the Sack of King’s Landing sporting the blond hair of the Westerlands.

“Is it truly so necessary?” Steffon questioned.

“You of all people cannot afford to lose the game.” Pausing, Tywin stared at him, green eyes locked onto his. “Should you waver in your convictions, think on what shall become of your family should you lose.”

Unbidden, thoughts of Aegon and Rhaenys Targaryen came to mind. A little girl with half a hundred wounds inflicted on her by a mad dog, her mother raped and murdered and brother utterly unrecognizable.

Tywin Lannister merely stared at him; green eyes cold, as if he knew exactly what thought had crossed his mind.

* * *

They were set to leave the West in a few days; the king had tired of the whores and serving women available in Casterly Rock and was eager to return to his keep. No doubt, Lord Baelish would have a fresh selection available for him. 

Steffon had quite thoroughly exhausted himself.

There had been plans to make regarding King’s Landing, letters sent to his grandfather’s lords bannermen. Worst still was the fierce argument that had broken out between Steffon, and his mother. They had spent days arguing over his invitation to Uncle Tyrion to return to the Red Keep alongside them, and she had been none too pleased.

Tyrion had proven himself a brilliant individual, stunted in growth and spited for it. Steffon had found his uncle amusing, witty, and quite thoroughly depressed. There was nothing for him anymore at the Rock – not with Lord Tywin hovering disapprovingly – and he had extended an invitation to have the man join them at the capital.

_Cersei had stalked toward her eldest son, fury written all over her face._

_Wisely, Steffon had ducked into his grandfather’s solar for his evening lessons. He would face censure for this, yet he was determined to see it through. At least it will not be a public dressing down._

_“Prince Steffon,” Grandfather called._

_He was displeased, Steff knew. His tone of address made it clear, and Steffon rigidly sat in the chair across from Lord Tywin. Green eyes stared blankly into his eyes, and Steffon found himself wondering if the man had a touch of magic in him. _Snape would be jealous of his mask_, he thought._

_“Lord Tywin,” Steffon replied calmly, no longer the young grandchild eagerly learning at his grandfather’s feet._

_“What is the meaning of this invitation?” his mother hissed. The queen was unable to hide her disdain for her youngest brother, and Steffon felt a stab of pity for his uncle. He would have to endure her for quite some time now, he knew._

_“Cersei.” He said her name calmly, not even looking at her, and Steffon could feel his mother deflate. Would that he had the same power over her, his life would be short several arguments._

_“Explain,” he stated._

_Chin raised, Steffon squared his shoulders as he stared at his grandfather. “Lord Tyrion has ably restored Casterly Rock’s sewage system. I merely ask for his expertise in the capital.”_

_A scoff of disbelief met his ears. When he did not add anything else, Steff heard his mother laugh. “You want the little imp to clean out the gutters? I suppose that is all he can be counted on.”_

_He felt his jaw twitch; schooling his features to not show the anger at his mother’s dismissal of her brother, of her denigrating his worth. They despised one another, but Uncle Tyrion did not deserve her scorn merely for existing._

_“The sewers?” Grandfather’s brow was raised in question._

_“King’s Landing smells like shit,” Steff stated bluntly, “and you can smell it quite far out. No other city in the kingdoms smells like that.”_

_“No other city has the population,” Grandfather corrected._

_“The Free Cities are far larger,” Steffon argued, “and like to smell as roses. It is the capital, for Seven’s sake.”_

_“That monstrous lecher –”_

_“Is a Lannister,” Steffon stressed, turning to glare at his mother. “You have spent my entire life telling me of the greatness of this House, mother. I should like to see it contribute to the kingdoms.”_

_Tywin remained impassive, and Steffon turned to give him his final argument, though there was no true need of it. King Robert had agreed, his father having taken a shine to the dwarf, and Steffon knew there was no denying the king. Not when the man in question could almost drink him under the table._

_“You yourself gave him control over the sewers here. None of the Targaryens saw fit to improve their city, and it has gained quite the reputation. I will not rule over a pile of stinking shit Grandfather. Should he succeed, Uncle Tyrion will have done what generations of Targaryen kings have been unable to.”_

_He had him. Mentioning Lannister supremacy was a guarantee of his agreement, though Steff kept from crowing in success._

_“How long do you expect him in the capital?”_

_Stifling his smile, Steffon did not turn when he heard his mother’s outraged cry, nor did he flinch when she slammed the door shut. There would be hell to pay for this, but Steffon did not care at the moment. Things were beginning to look up._

He and Lord Tywin had spent that evening bargaining over Uncle Tyrion’s stay and what would be expected of the Rock. His uncle had received a far more threatening speech, one on the behaviour befitting a Lannister.

Steffon had been unable to contain his smile; the ships had the potential to work, with massive profits expected according to Maester Creylen, and there was a possible solution for the city’s drainage issues. He could go back to King’s Landing and finally begin his work.

Joffrey crashing through his door caused him to jerk upright in bed. There were tears streaming down his face and a horrified look in his eyes, and Steffon felt his good mood evaporate.

“Joff?” he called.

The young boy ignored him, slamming the door shut and sliding the bolt in place. He crashed into Steffon’s desk, eyes wild, and he grew alarmed.

“Joff! Joffrey!” he yelled. Shuddering, the younger boy only dived into his bed, clinging onto Steffon as he never had since he began learning the sword. He didn’t know what had so obviously distressed his younger brother, but he swore to destroy anyone that had dared to harm him.

“Joff,” Steffon coaxed, “what’s wrong little brother?”

At those words, Joffrey began shaking his head, muttering “no, no,” and Steff pulled the boy closer to him.

“Joffrey,” he said softly.

Trembling, the eight-year-old stared at Steff, a desolate look etched onto his face. “I saw them,” Joffrey whispered.

They were ever vigilant, for the walls had ears; even here at Casterly Rock, where Lord Tywin reigned supreme and most would never dare attempt anything. Half the king’s court had accompanied them, little birds always fluttering about.

Before he could ask for more information, the blond put his mouth to Steff’s ear. “Mother and Uncle Jaime,” Joff breathed. “It-it was like Father and his whores, and they mentioned a—”

Steffon pressed Joffrey to his shoulder, cutting off the rest of the boy’s words. His heart was hammering in his chest, certain he could hear it.

_They would not be so stupid_, he desperately thought.

“Joff,” he breathed in a panic. “Where? Where was this?”

“The bowels,” Joffrey sobbed. “I wanted to explore the Rock one last time be-before we had to leave.”

Sucking in a breath, Steffon tried to calm his racing heart. There were no guards posted there, he remembered. If there were, Mother and Uncle Jaime were Lannisters, and none would dare question them in their own home.

“Was there anyone with you?” Steffon pressed. “Did anyone see you Joffrey?”

Joffrey shook his head in reply, and Steffon barely kept from slumping in relief. That was good: the others were unaware as of yet.

_For how long_, a dark voice whispered.

“Joffre–”

“We don’t look like Father,” Joff whispered shakily, breathe coming in gasps. Steffon’s stomach twisted at those words, at the possibilities it laid before them, at the dangers of what his little brother had discovered.

He could see it; Joff had always looked far too much like a Lannister. When Myrcella and Tommen had entered the world looking every inch a Lannister, Steffon had not questioned it. They all had shared the same Lannister green eyes; there had been no contesting their relation.

Joffrey was breathing hard, eyes blown wide in panic. “W-we don’t—Cella and Tom and I, we don’t look like you or Fathe—”

“Hush,” Steffon urged. “I’ll hear none of that from you.” Seeing the younger boy open his mouth, Steffon pressed a fierce kiss to his forehead. Grabbing Joff’s face, his eyes bore into similar green orbs. “You and Cella and Tom, you are my _siblings_. No—listen to me!” he snapped.

“You are my brother – you and Tommen both. And Myrcella is my sister. I will kill anyone who tries to harm you.”

It terrified him, how far he was willing to go. Yet Steffon was certain of his words, meant to honour this one vow above all else. Father would kill them; Father, who had celebrated the deaths of small children that threatened his crown, would slaughter these children he once thought of as his.

_I would kill him for them_, he thought. He knew it, knew deep in his bones that he would wade through all seven hells for his younger siblings.

They were _his_ family: his to love, his to protect, in a way that Harry Potter had never had before. Steffon Baratheon had the family Harry Potter could only dream of, and he was determined to keep it at any cost.

* * *

Three days later, Steffon rode out of Casterly Rock alongside his brother. He had kept Joffrey busy their last days, the two princes venting their anger in the training yard. 

Uncle Jaime had kept himself busy, unknowingly preventing an ugly accident from occurring.

They were riding for home, turning what had been an enjoyable reprieve into a nerve-wracking departure. Casterly Rock had taught them many intrigues, but King’s Landing was a nest of vipers waiting to pounce on the first sign of weakness.

Danger awaited them. Glancing once more at his grandfather, Steffon swore to put his lessons to use.

He would play the game of thrones, and he would make sure he came out the winner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh, that one took a bit of time. Next chapter will be up in about two weeks.


	3. Entering The Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more things change, the more they stay the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things to clear up the timeline.
> 
> Joff is born in early 286, Myrcella and Tommen in late 290 and 291 respectively. I put Steffon's birth at around the end of the ninth month of 284, with Cersei and Robert marrying at the beginning of the new year.
> 
> Casterly Rock visit: late 295-early 296
> 
> This chapter starts in early 297.
> 
> Some changes will be made to the canon timeline because of Steffon's existence and the ripples it caused, so things in this chapter will finish off in mid-late 299.

Steffon was feeling frustrated at the slow pace of things.

It would take several years to rework the infrastructure of King’s Landing. He had anticipated it taking quite some time; Uncle Tyrion warned him of the time it would take, of the need for skilled workers, a proper assessment of the drainage and finding the tools.

He had known what he signed up for; he just hadn’t quite expected to face a wall in the form of the small council.

Steffon had continued his forays into the city. Joff had not asked why he wandered King’s Landing with only a small retinue, mostly hidden in the shadows. The prince simply joined him on his excursions, letting their smallfolk see their heir’s interest. His pride in the younger boy was tempered by the bitter realization of how necessary such action was.

They had spoken to their people, asking after their welfare and the needs of their poorest subjects. Uncle Tyrion had been with them just shy of a year, unable to truly start his work until he had a better idea of the lay of the land. He had discovered what he would need, could estimate the cost of materials and labour and was reluctant to commit when Steffon insisted on finding the materials from amongst the kingdoms. He had relented in the end, seeing wisdom in putting coin in the back into the hands of their lords. Tyrion spent moons poring over past trade agreements that Steffon brought to him and an account on the resources of each kingdom.

In the meantime, they had begun to make small improvements; people were urged to boil their water to cleanse it of dirt, and Steffon saw marked improvement in their health.

It was a small change, things moving forward incrementally, but any improvement in their lives was met with joy.

Joffrey had followed in his example, ordering the servants to hand any leftovers from his nameday feast out to the poorest areas of King’s Landing. Between the two of them, and with four nameday feasts thrown in the siblings’ honour, they managed to handle quite the spread of food.

It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough for what Steffon wished to do. All they had done was provide temporary relief; clean drinking water and meals from leftovers were all well and good, but their source of water was soiled and many could not afford the price of food. Not with the greatest share being given to the royal court. It had been Joff who insisted on purchasing grain for the smallfolk to be handed out routinely, providing those with the least resources a steady source of food, and even that was a bone of contention between the council and them.

In spite of being filled with all sorts of work, there were large swathes of King’s Landing that held folk looking for an honest living. Steffon had hoped the building of new ships and the labour needed for fixing the drains would alleviate that, but the small council was being oddly stubborn about his proposal.

“Prince Steffon,” Lord Arryn began soothingly, “while it is a good endeavour, it simply is not feasible at this time.”

Steffon gritted his teeth, sounding quite like Uncle Stannis at the moment. The man in question was sitting there calmly, cool eyes watching Steff.

“And why should such a proposal be tabled for another day, Lord Hand?” Steffon asked testily.

“There are other expenses that the treasury must bear,” Lord Arryn replied warily.

Scowling fiercely, Steffon glared at the old man. Thirteen years he had been Hand of the King, and still he kowtowed to the whims of his foster son.

“I had thought the point of placing Lord Baelish on the council was to improve the treasury.”

Littlefinger jerked slightly in surprise, not expecting the comment. He smiled pleasantly at Steff, a touch of condescension in his voice, “It is a complicated process, my prince, this business of commerce.”

“And yet you’ve managed to ably find coin for the King to host several tourneys,” Steff replied scathingly. “Mayhaps your luck with Gulltown has failed you here, my lord.”

The man in question blinked, a flash of something crossing his face. Lord Varys was hiding a small smile, eyes twinkling in disguised humour.

“Why ships?” Uncle Stannis asked.

Steffon refrained from running a hand through his hair, a nervous tic that he would have to remove. “We stand to make more coin from ships, uncle.”

“These designs have the look of war ships,” Lord Arryn interjected, frowning in worry.

“They have the capability, yes,” he added smoothly. “The entirety of the Royal Fleet is capable of waging war, Lord Arryn, though that is not the entire purpose. This will be done in large part to replace them.”

“Replace them?” Uncle Stannis frowned. “Why should we replace perfectly functioning ships?”

“For faster and sturdier vessels. The fleet will be remade, and the existing ships can be used for extended trade opportunities. Or perhaps a mixture of both considering the dangers of pirating along the Narrow Sea,” Steffon outlined.

Uncle Stannis would eventually approve; as Master of Ships he would welcome any opportunity to better his sails. If he spoke with that Onion Knight he liked to take counsel from, Steff was certain the man would agree once he saw the plans.

“A fine idea, Prince Steffon,” Pycelle praised.

“If I may,” Varys started, shrewd eyes looking upon the plans Steffon had placed on the table. “This will all require a good deal of work, Prince Steffon, and a number of men we might not have.”

Steffon cut in before anyone could seize the lifeline Lord Varys provided them. “There are thousands of able-bodied workers within the city who would welcome the opportunity, my lord. Men who would do honest work for a decent amount of coin.”

“Coin that we do not have!” Lord Arryn stressed.

At times, Steffon felt pity for Jon Arryn. The man had been an able Hand for some time, keeping things together until he died or the king finally took interest in his kingdom.

All traces of sympathy were wiped away when he recalled that his father had spent a large portion of his life in Lord Arryn’s care, and the man had been unable to impress upon the then heir to the Stormlands the importance of responsibility.

“I should think the role of a Master of Coin was to not merely _find_ coin but to ensure it’s continued existence in the treasury.” Steffon remarked. “If it is proving too difficult, then perhaps we shall need another.”

His green eyes were boring into the sky blue of Jon Arryn, refusing to budge an inch. He had spent moons scouring the streets of King’s Landing looking for men who could handle the strenuous work required of shipbuilders. Lord Tywin had loaned the crown a few engineers from Lannisport, and he was hoping to convince Lord Manderly and Lord Redwyne to loan them more men. He would need a united council behind him for that.

“That will not be necessary,” Baelish hurriedly added. “I am certain I can find the necessary coin, my prince.”

“I shall look forward to your progress on that end,” Steffon said coolly. Eyes flashing to Jon Arryn, Steff stared down at the old Hand. They had gone back and forth for the better part of a year, each playing a game in their attempts to progress their own vision for Westeros.

“I expect that there should be no further issue finding the coin?” Steffon asked. They were silent, but for Pycelle’s huff of agreement.

“Of course, my prince,” Lord Arryn answered, false pleasantness in his voice.

Smiling thinly he added, “For the good of the kingdom, Lord Hand. The king’s city cannot smell of a sewer, and Father has agreed to the upkeep required.” Robert had been rather easy to convince; much like Lord Tywin, mentioning his supremacy over the Targaryens had proven key to gaining the man’s approval. Lord Arryn was proving a difficulty.

Steffon was tired of the man’s inability to rein in his foster son, of his ineptitude when it came to dealing with the general populace of King’s Landing. The Vale Lords adored the old falcon and Steff would grudgingly admit that the man was adept at creating crucial alliances. But Jon Arryn had won a throne and seemed intent on losing it, and not for all the gold in Casterly Rock would Steffon allow any to pull him off his throne.

* * *

“My dear nephew, I did not think you the type to trample across the wishes of your mother, but you have proven me wrong,” Tyrion grinned, striding into his solar. The desk was large, oak wood stained black, and Steff’s stack of parchment was nearly as high as his uncle.

“I should think my invitation to you was proof enough of my willingness to ignore her wants when necessary Uncle,” Steffon retorted. He ignored the cup of wine that had been poured for him, gesturing for the serving boy that had followed Tyrion in to leave them. A short glance at Ser Arys ensured that the man would keep others away.

Sighing, Steffon crumpled the letter he had been penning, tossing the ball of parchment onto the desk. Ignoring his uncle’s curiosity he pointedly asked, “And what has our dear queen in a fit this fine evening?”

“Your brother, for one,” Tyrion replied. Steffon straightened at the flat tone of his voice, recognizing the serious nature of their conversation.

“Joffrey has been rather well behaved Uncle,” he said softly. Even with Maegor’s paranoia over rats within his own walls, Steffon took care not to speak too loudly lest the spider catch whispers.

“For how long,” Tyrion countered. “He insists on coming with you on a progress of the Crownlands—”

“As he should,” Steffon pressed. “Second son he may be, but Joff is a prince and the realm should know their princes. Especially those of the Crownlands.”

Tyrion stared at him, brow furrowed in thought. “A valid point, yet he has loudly bickered with your mother over the matter.”

Sighing, Steffon dragged a hand across his face. It had been a year since their return from Casterly Rock and Joffrey had not recovered from what he learned. He was snappish when speaking with their mother, overly cold with both her and the king, and his fury had spilled into his training. Ser Barristan has realized something was upsetting Joff, but the knight said nothing, working instead to sharpen his skills. Ser Aron had worked to temper Joff’s fury into something usable for battle, helping the younger boy keep a handle on his emotions.

Grimacing, Steffon remembered the bout between Joff and cousin Lancel, who had been brought to King’s Landing to squire for the king. Lancel was very much a Lannister, and though he did not look like Uncle Jaime, the arrogant smirk he had sent Joff had been enough to cause the ten year old to leave him battered and bruised afterward.

“He is a ten year old,” Steffon pointed out. Tyrion did not fall for it, merely shooting him a look of disbelief.

“Perhaps his behaviour could be excused, but that is something that would hurt your efforts with the Lords.”

Glaring at his desk, Steffon pondered on his uncle’s words. Joffrey was a mess of emotions right now, far more devastated by the truth than Steffon himself had been. They both knew the danger of their situation, but it was far more real to Joff who had a sword at his neck. Steffon would not allow them to suffer any harm, would tear downany who discovered the truth of his siblings, but he could not be there at all times.

_Would that I could trust the bloody Spider on certain matters_, he thought. That way led to war, and so he would need to gather as many potential allies as he could.

“Joffrey will come with me Uncle,” Steff said firmly. “Better to keep him away from the keep until such a time as he is in higher spirits.”

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes stared shrewdly at him. _Could he possibly know?_ Steffon wondered. His uncle had always been clever, and he had no way of truly knowing exactly how discreet his mother had been.

“High spirits,” Tyrion drawled.

Brow twitching in irritation, Steffon motioned for his uncle to follow him to the wall, a map of Westeros pinned to it.

“Absence makes the heart fonder,” Steffon quipped dryly. Pointing at The Whispers, Steffon outlined a trail that would lead them to Dyre Den and along the Rosby Road until they eventually came back to King’s Landing.

“That will take quite some time,” Tyrion noted. “Several moons at least, if you mean to stop at each holdfast along the road.”

“I expect it will,” Steffon said softly. “Not much has been done to bind the Crownlords to us.”

“A folly. Loyal dragonmen all of them, and loyal to the Targaryen on the throne for some years. Especially those in Duskendale, Rosby and Stokeworth,” Tyrion added.

Seeing his curious look, Uncle Tyrion launched into his explanation of the loyalties of those lords closest to King’s Landing. “Many have kept faith with the throne, declaring for Maegor against Jaehaerys while he was king, fighting off the forces of Rhaenyra. Whoever holds King’s Landing is like to have their loyalties.”

“Good,” Steffon murmured, eyes tracking the eastern crownlands. “Not quite enough though. How many men can they field?”

“A pittance compared to others,” Tyrion grimaced. “Lesser power still, when you consider the naval strength of the Narrow Sea.”

Steffon gazed at Dragonstone, determined in his course. “We shall have to win them to our side,” he whispered.

“I would advise against that, Steffon,” Uncle Tyrion warned.

Looking down at the dwarf, Steffon raised a brow. “Can you think of a better way to bring them to us?”

“Anything that does not require placing yourself in harms way,” Tyrion hissed. “Bad enough that you will travel, that you insist on taking Joffrey and yourself in the midst of _those_ particular lords is asking for more than your mother’s screeching.”

“Mother can make her displeasure known all she wishes, her crown rests on the continued goodwill of the lords,” Steffon snapped.

“Not just their goodwill,” Tyrion rebuked.

Sighing, Steffon dragged himself over to his chair, plopping down onto it as he pulled his cup of wine close.

“The Westerlands is one kingdom, a fine army to be sure but still nothing in the face of the others.”

“You don’t just have the West, His Grace holds the allegiance of four kingdoms,” Tyrion replied.

“_Father_ holds their allegiance, and you know better than I just how swiftly those allegiances can change.”

“And yet you depend on the Lords of the Narrow Sea for loyalty,” Tyrion remarked dryly.

Steffon sat quietly in thought, brow furrowed as he nursed his wine. _Gods, at this rate I am like to take to the drink as my father has_, he thought sourly.

“I do not like it,” Steffon murmured. “Not at all, though I suppose I cannot begrudge them their allegiances.”

“Of course you can. You are the future king, their allegiance is owed to you.”

Snorting he said, “I did not take you for an optimist Uncle.”

“Only at the worst of time,” Tyrion jested. Sobering, he pierced Steffon with his mismatched eyes, a seriousness in them that people rarely saw. “It is a dangerous gamble, placing such resources in their hands. Oh, don’t tell me you also take me for a fool nephew.”

“Never have I thought that,” Steffon said earnestly.

Smiling at him, Tyrion raised his glass in salute, draining his wine in one go. “They block the Narrow Sea, and their hold of improved ships would put them in a better position to do so.”

“It’s a gamble I will have to take,” Steffon said.

“Then let us drink to a successful wager. I rather like my head on my shoulders, do remember that when you are trading words with those prickly lords.”

* * *

The waves were crashing against the rocks, slowly pulling them in. They had left King’s Landing near a week earlier, and Ser Davos had proven himself an able captain when the winds were not favourable.

The Lords of the Narrow Sea awaited them. Sullen most like, but willing to meet with the current princes, they would hold their grudges and smile lest they invite war to their lands.

Uncle Stannis had raged about the lords sworn to him, he knew. Raged about Renly being given his inheritance while he was left on a pile of stone, surrounded by unwelcoming faces. Prince of Dragonstone he was not, and their loyalty was as enduring as their Valyrian ancestry.

He heard the soft scuffles of Joffrey’s boots, the younger boy standing to his right. Steffon waited, eyes locked onto the horizon, as the island grew closer.

“Are you certain of this?” Joff muttered.

Lips quirked, Steffon merely stared as the people of the isle became more visible. There were dragonseeds here, countless bastards from innumerable Princes of Dragonstone or their siblings who had sated their lusts among the smallfolk.

“They are not loyal,” Steffon softly answered. “Not truly, and never to us. We will have to win their loyalty.”

Joff pursed his lips, brow twitching in discontent. “You would give them ships. Ships that could be used for the benefit of Targaryen exiles,” he responded.

He knew, had agonized over his decision for a moon before he pushed forth. Uncle Stannis had warned him against it, but he had no cause to complain once the reality of their situation had been laid bare.

“Exiles, with not one whit of knowledge of the people of Westeros. Who would welcome a foreigner?”

“Aegon the Conqueror was a foreigner who united the Seven Kingdoms,” Joffrey retorted.

“Not so much a foreigner,” Steff countered, “considering his close distance to other kingdoms, and dragons besides. But a girl who knows nothing of her homeland and a prince with possibly a touch of madness; who would dare invite another Mad King back to our shores?”

Huffing a breath, Joff turned to look at him. “I don’t like it, Steff,” he said quietly.

Smiling wryly Steff replied, “Nor do I, but it is up to us to unite the kingdoms more firmly. They’ll see; the days of Targaryen power were waning before the war, and we’ll show that we are not Father.”

At those words, Joffrey’s eyes flashed in anger before he smoothed his face, expression blank. Steffon gave him a small smile and a quick nudge, motioning to the side where Uncle Stannis awaited.

They had docked in Dragonstone’s harbour, and a plank was brought to let them down. The moment Steffon’s foot touched the rough stone he felt it. Dragonstone felt different. His magic rushed forward in greeting, a sense of familiarity between himself and the latent magic present. It was all Steffon could do not to stumble in front of his Uncle’s people.

Seeing Joff’s frown, Steffon gave him a quick smile, alleviating his worries. “Sea legs,” he muttered, and was pleased to see Joff’s smirk.

They were led to the castle itself. The entire isle was thrumming with magic; similar to small sparks he had felt when in King’s Landing, but wholly concentrated. _Valyria_, he thought, _the last gasps of the Freehold_. Dragon sculptures greeted them, the entire castle littered with stone facades of the creatures alongside stone basilisks, cockatrices, gargoyles, griffins, manticores.

Uncle Stannis’s household was arrayed outside, the Lords of the Narrow Sea beside them in places of prominence. They bowed at the sight of the Princes, and Steffon quickly ordered them to rise, eyes scanning the crowd of nobles.

Lady Selyse greeted her husband stiffly, little Shireen next to her with a curtain of hair covering half her face. _The greyscale scars_, he remembered.

“Prince Steffon, Prince Joffrey. My wife Lady Selyse and daughter Lady Shireen.”

“Aunt Selyse,” Steffon greeted, hearing Joff echo his words. Little Shireen was standing stiffly next to her mother, a shy smile on her face.

Joffrey reached for her hand, bowing to place a kiss on her knuckles. “Little cousin, it is quite wonderful to meet you,” he said warmly. Shireen spared a shy look at Joffrey, face flushed slightly as her hair moved, and Steffon was glad the boy did not react to the now visible scars.

“Well met, Prince Joffrey,” Shireen said, turning to Steffon with a small curtsy. “Prince Steffon.”

“Cousin,” he replied, a smile on his face. Lady Selyse held a severe look on her face, lips pursed with a flash of something cold in her eyes, and Steffon had the sudden feeling that his little cousin faced disdain from her own mother for her illness.

Uncle Stannis stood next to an aging lord with a cane in hand, pale of hair with a thin face. Next to him was a younger man, closer in age to Uncle Stannis with Valyrian colouring. Both men wore grey trousers with a sea green doublet, the sea horse of House Velaryon stitched onto the breast.

The Velaryons of Driftmark had long been loyal to House Targaryen. Once, that loyalty might have extended to House Baratheon on account of their shared blood, but the Rebellion had soured whatever affection there might have been.

“Prince Steffon, Prince Joffrey,” Lord Lucerys greeted. His purple eyes were pale and cold, coolly assessing the two sons of the Usurper. Steffon was surprised to see the older man about; he had heard rumours of an illness that had left him bedridden, but here he stood, tall and unwilling to show weakness in front of them.

“Lord Velaryon,” Steffon smiled. “A pleasure to meet you and your heir, my lord.”

Purple eyes scrutinized his face, and Steffon kept his expression placid. He smiled slowly, “Yes, it is.”

They had moved on after a polite greeting with Lord Monford, Uncle Stannis introducing them to the Bar Emmon, Celtigar, and Sunglass lords, all of them older than Stannis and some of the fiercest in loyalty to House Targaryen.

They feasted in the Great Hall, passing underneath the dragon’s teeth, and Steffon was vibrating with the feel of magic throughout. He wanted to explore the island in its entirety, wanted to discover the secrets the Valyrians had hidden beneath the stone. There was no time for that, he knew, nor would he be allowed; ostensibly, he was visiting Dragonstone for a moon so that he and Joff may meet their cousin and see more of Westeros, but there was work to be done to bring these lords to their side, and time for little else.

Steffon was seated next to his uncle, Joffrey on his other side as they were served from platters of food; wine-soaked salmon, honeyed trout with parsley sprinkles, a choice plate of boar, bits of chicken seared in peppercorn. Dragonstone offered a fresh range of fruit as well: berries and melons, blood oranges from Dorne, olives from the Free Cities and barrels of peach from Highgarden. Uncle Stannis had a particularly sour look on his face at the sight of the peaches – a gift from Lord Celtigar – and Steffon shook his head in dismay.

“He can’t even stomach food from the Reach,” Joff muttered. “How on earth are you to win these people to your side?”

“Wit and charm,” Steff grinned. Joffrey snorted, and Steff lightly kicked him beneath the table.

“Are you saying I am without charm, dear brother?” he asked, an imperious look on his face.

“A boar has shown more charm than you,” Joff jested, and Steffon felt his hand twitch with the urge to shove his brother’s face into his plate of lemonberry tart.

“This is a folly Steffon,” Uncle Stannis tried to dissuade him once more, voice hard as iron. “You are seeking trouble.”

“I was unaware that it was a folly to mistrust loyal lords,” Steffon said with an air of disinterest. They had had this conversation dozens of times since he first struck upon the idea, and they were no closer to coming to an agreement.

Hard blue eyes gazed at him and Steffon refused to flinch. A smile was plastered on his face, masking the sudden discontent between their lord and his nephew.

“They fought against us,” Stannis pointed out, “and neither have any like for the crowned stag.”

“As did many other Houses Uncle, but we have forgiven them all,” Steffon calmly retorted.

Stannis clenched his jaw, and Steffon knew he was thinking of the Tyrells. _You cannot alienate an entire kingdom for their loyalty to their king Uncle_, he thought sadly.

Mace Tyrell had feasted outside the walls of a starving Storm’s End, and Stannis had held both the castle and his grudge against the Reach.

“They bent the knee Uncle. We cannot punish them for choosing their loyalty to their king during the Rebellion. Besides, they have not shown any hint of disloyalty to you.”

He had no response to that, and Steffon turned to continue his meal. Joffrey had been listening, eyes tracking across the hall as he appraised the assembled lords.

_The time has come for them to cement their loyalty to the king on the throne_, he thought.

* * *

Standing at the head of the Painted Table, Steffon could imagine the work that had gone into Aegon’s Conquest. There was a powerful, heady feeling, standing here where the Conqueror had stood, where his own grandfather of many generations had plotted to bring Westeros under the banner of the red dragon.

The negotiations would go on for quite some time. At least a fortnight, he guessed, locked into heated discussions amongst lords of whom their loyalty was not certain. Uncle Stannis had asked again if he was certain of his course, but Steffon was nothing but stubborn and determined to see it through.

_What better way to win their loyalty_, he thought _than to show them a measure of respect_.

Joffrey stood to his right, tall and solid in his gold doublet. Ser Arys and Ser Boros stood behind them, Uncle Stannis to his left. Ser Davos Seaworth was stood next to his uncle in pride of place, and Steffon was certain the prickly lords were bristling at the perceived insult.

Next to Joffrey stood Maester Cressen, old and slightly stooped, a roll of parchment in hand so as to record the proceedings.

The Lords of the Narrow Sea were arrayed in front of him, stood along the Western shore of Westeros.

“Prince Steffon, we shall begin the negotiations,” Maester Cressen stated.

Giving the old maester a slight nod, Steffon gestured at the mouth of the Blackwater. “The Royal Fleet numbers at just over two hundred ships, my lords, of which a good portion is provided by your houses. As the Greyjoy Rebellion has shown, the ships are not entirely unfallible.”

“We have provided our best ships for the fleet,” Lord Bar Emmon stated.

“Yes, there is no doubt of that, my lord. But our best ships cannot hope to compare to what we have in mind for the next fleet we mean to build,” Steffon responded.

“These ships have served us well, are better than most can hope for. Why should we rebuild them?” Lord Sunglass asked.

“Not a complete rebuild, my lord. We are speaking of changing the future of seafaring entirely.”

They were silent for a moment, looks of scepticism on their faces. Bar Emmon and Celtigar looked on in disbelief; a prince he may be but he was still only two and ten, not like to truly have done anything revolutionary in their eyes.

Joffrey was smirking when Steffon gestured to him, unrolling the large sheaf of parchment that he held so that it was spread across the map. Steffon watched as they leaned over so as to better look at the plans.

Steffon had come up with the original work, drawing upon the memories of Harry Potter to better Westeros. He had spent countless hours with Uncle Tyrion and the engineers from Lannisport, with Uncle Stannis and Ser Davos and their shipwrights seeing how they could possibly create something of this scale. It would dwarf their current ships, would open up more room for storage, and the shipwrights were salivating at the thought of having worked on such a piece nearly as much as Steffon was on the potential changes it could bring.

“This is impossible,” Lord Celtigar stated.

“What can you not understand from the plans?” Uncle Stannis grouched. “They have been looked over by dozens of workers and builders. Use your abilities as a seaman my lord, and look at the ship!”

They broke out into murmurs, hands gesticulating as they looked over the ships. It was massive, with less oars and far more sails than their current fleet.

“Why show us these plans? What the Crown wishes to do with their fleet is their concern,” Lord Monford asked. Steffon was unsure if it was his genuine interest or if Lord Lucerys was behind the question, but he felt the entire room hold their breath.

“It concerns your Houses as well,” Joffrey retorted, “considering that you all have loyally provided ships for the Greyjoy Rebellion. We mean to reward such loyalty.”

Steffon felt a rush of affection for his brother; Joffrey had struggled with the truth of things this past year, and he had worried that the boy would give in to his temper at some point. He was glad that despite his internal turmoil and misgivings over this affair he was willing to put his best work forward.

“He speaks true,” Steffon stated. “There are several fleets in the Seven Kingdoms, but the affairs of the Crown and your Houses are closely tied. Should one flourish, we will all have to benefit.”

They were interested, he saw. Could tell by the way they leaned over to familiarize themselves with the plans, in the way they gestured at one another.

“As the Lords of the Narrow Sea, these plans will be given to your shipbuilders, so that you may build a number of ships. Your current fleet would be used to patrol the Narrow Sea and for continued trade.”

At his gesture, Uncle Stannis continued the talks alongside Ser Davos, highlighting the expected capabilities of the new ships. There would be extra coin to be made from potential trade, and Steffon was certain they were interested at the possibilities laid before them.

A part of him wavered over his decision; it was a significant amount of power to hand over to any House, and he had just emboldened several that most likely did not like seeing the crowned stag instead of the three-headed dragon. He could have spelt his doom – his and the rest of his family’s – but Steffon had to believe that he had made the right decision.

It had taken well over a fortnight before they came to an agreement. The Lords of the Narrow Sea were a stubborn lot, each of them certain they knew what was best in regards to the fleet. Steffon could not undermine them, not when they had been sailing since before he had been a thought, but the new ships were something none of the lords had seen before yet they all weighed on with their expertise.

Costs of labour and material had been argued for a sennight, each lord insisting on a certain cost from the Crown. They had been in an uproar when Uncle Stannis had let it be known that final negotiations would come from the Lord Hand, including the Crown’s portion of payment, and Steff and Joff had been forced to soothe their ruffled feathers at the realization that royal approval had not been given.

Lord Bar Emmon had approved when they had told them to find labourers amongst their smallfolk, with any additional requirements coming from the surrounding Crownlands; the coin would help many families beholden to these lords, and Lord Guncer had declared them pious princes with the Father’s favour.

Things looked to be going in their favour. Ser Davos would oversee the construction on Dragonstone once approval had come from the Crown, and Uncle Stannis would return to King’s Landing to ensure the Crown’s compliance. They were not lacking in wood, and though Steffon had hoped to bring the North into their negotiations, he knew they were unwilling to wait for continued talks before building.

_A ship or two, they have wood enough for that, and coin besides_, he thought. It would work, and Steffon was eager to see the fruit of their labour.

For the entirety of the negotiations, purple eyes bore into Steffon as Lucerys Velaryon quietly appraised the young prince.

* * *

The beaches of Dragonstone were silent at this hour. Steffon relished the quiet, having not truly had time to privately order his thoughts. _The life of a prince belongs to the realm_, he thought.

It was early still, the sun peaking out from the horizon. It was breathtaking; for all that he had lived near the mouth of the Blackwater, Steffon had not quite gotten used to seeing the sun spread out over endless water. He was beginning to understand why Ser Davos enjoyed his ships so much.

The crunch of gravel alerted him to a visitor, and Steffon saw from the corner of his eye as Ser Arys shifted, alert with a hand on the hilt of his sword.

He continued watching the sea, the water beating against the rocks soothing him. Dragonstone smelt like smoke and brimstone despite the lack of dragons, as if they had embedded their scent on the ground.

Lord Lucerys stopped next to Steffon, watching the waves as he himself did, seemingly content with the silence.

“I knew your grandfather,” he began. “Both of them, actually, though I knew Steffon far better. A good and loyal man; I mourned his passing greatly. A shame that we’ll not see his like again.”

“Dead at the end of a mad journey for an unworthy king and prince,” Steffon replied.

Lord Velaryon’s lips tightened the slightest bit. “Aegon the Unworthy come again?”

Steffon did not reply, allowing the old man his insult. Aerys, Robert. They were not of the same make, both king’s having their own vices.

At his gesture, Steffon waited until Ser Arys had stepped away, giving them some form of privacy.

“You remained loyal to your king, Lord Velaryon, and paid a minor price for it.”

“Minor,” the old man scoffed, hands tightening on his cane. “It was not for Aerys that I remained loyal,” Velaryon stated quietly.

“Rhaegar,” Steffon responded with a slight twist to his lips. _It always comes back to him_, he thought.

“When Aegon the Conqueror united these kingdoms, House Velaryon stood behind him as he was their kin. Just as Jaehaerys and Daeron were our kin, as they were kin to House Baratheon,” Velaryon replied.

“What has your loyalty given you, my lord?” Steffon asked sardonically.

Thrice, House Velaryon had provided brides for Targaryens, and each turn had ended in blood.

“Your grandfather would not have remained loyal,” Velaryon surprisingly stated.

Steffon turned to him, a curious look on his face as he saw the purple eyes dim. In this moment, Lucerys Velaryon looked old and so very tired. “Don’t look so surprised, Steffon would not have stood for the insult paid to his family, not even from the son of his cousin.”

“His loyalty did not extend that far?”

“No man would endure such an insult, not when wars have been fought for less,” Velaryon countered. “No, it was for Rhaella that we remained loyal.”

Surprise filled him at the statement. Rhaella Targaryen was not often discussed. A victim of the actions of her husband and son, killed because she carried a threat to the Baratheon regime.

“The Lords of the Narrow Sea were sworn to the Prince of Dragonstone,” Steffon commented.

“We were sworn to House Targaryen from the time of Aenar the Exile. Sworn to the king’s heir once Aenys made his declaration. What is a prince to us when he does not spare his lords much thought?”

“You disliked Rhaegar,” Steffon noted in fascination. He had always assumed the lords sworn to Dragonstone had kept faith with their prince, had adored the Silver Prince as much as any other.

Velaryon smiled sardonically, “Rhaegar was prone to flights of fancy. Oh, do not misunderstand; he was an able prince, learned and skilled at arms, but he was more Aerys than he cared to admit.”

“A madman?” Steffon questioned, slightly aghast at the thought. Everything he had ever heard of Rhaegar Targaryen had pointed to a proper restoration of the glory days, of a man many wished to see crowned. Even at his lowest, Rhaegar was considered lowly for taking Lyanna Stark. Never had he thought the prince’s subjects would agree with the likes of Robert Baratheon.

“Madness comes in many forms, most insidious is the one that allows others to die for their delusions.”

“Why tell me this?” Steffon asked.

He was quiet for a long moment, to the point where Steffon feared the man would elect to not answer. “For Steffon, for Rhaella, “ came the quiet reply.

Lord Velaryon turned to look at him and Steffon did the same, green eyes locked onto Valyrian purple. “I have lost kin in this war, we all have. You are unlike to find many who can say they were untouched by the Rebellion. Already, you have shown yourself a better king than your predecessors.”

“You wish for me to be another Jaehaerys,” Steffon stated.

“No, not at all,” Lord Lucerys denied, shaking his head. “Even the Old King had his faults, had planted the seeds of crises that would see the realm in ruins. You must be better than them,” he insisted.

Smiling lightly, “I had the thought that you were very much against me, my lord,” Steffon remarked.

“Once perhaps, but you were not at fault for the actions of those before you. Yours is a legacy of blood, Prince Steffon. It is for you to decide what you wish to leave the realm with.”

The old man left him with those parting words, a slight bow before making his way back to the castle.

_For Rhaella and Steffon_.

Steffon simply continued to stare out at the sea. It was restless, a storm clearly brewing. In its depths, Steffon saw the anguish of the past. Argella and Orys, Jocelyn and Rhaenys, Lyonel and Ormund and Rhaelle. Worst of all was his grandfather Steffon; he who had loved his cousins and been ever their champion, mourning what had become of them all. _They all paid the price_, he thought. House Targaryen had decimated itself and his ancestors had bled for it.

Somewhere in those watery depths, Argilac was laughing himself hoarse. _They’ve paid_, he whispered darkly. _They have felt our fury. Do not ever let them break us again_.

_We are all a tangle of alliances_, he thought, _torn between love and duty and the bonds of affection_.

A sense of lightness overcame him at that moment; he had won the Velaryons to his side, had shown trust to those loyal lords and was given a modicum of loyalty in return.

He would not squander it, this gift provided by a man who had loved his cousins.

* * *

Their first battle came at them in a flurry of limbs and glinting steel.

They had just left The Whispers, Nimble Dick riding with them for a league as Lord Crabb and his household saw them off. The old castle had been ruined for a thousand years, and none saw fit to restore it. It was a hard place, the lands impoverished, and Steffon had contemplated several different ways to bring coin to the lands. House Crabb sat along the coast, and a possible trading galley from the old fleet could be given to these proud lords.

They had been about a days ride out from Dyre Den when they were set upon. Cracklaw Point was filled with smugglers coves, and Steffon and Joffrey had been urged by their guards to travel with caution.

He had not expected such a brazen attack.

It had been a commotion that drew their attention as they were preparing to set camp, an old farmhand fighting off a rogue bandit. Ser Arys had pulled his sword out, keeping close to the two princes as a gold cloak went to handle the two men.

The crunching sound of gravel was their only warning before several men darted forward. They were dressed in all black leather, chainmail protecting them as they wielded castle-forged steel. A glint of silver came crashing toward him, Ser Arys’s sword flashing forward to parry the blow.

Steffon jerked backward, scrambling to reach his sword as Ser Boros pushed Joffrey to him, the two Kingsguard knights working simultaneously against a band of four brigands. They were fairly even matched, Ser Arys fielding two men off while Ser Boros took the other two, but they were not Barristan the Bold and Steff drew his sword in preparation, Joff copying him.

The goldcloak had gone down in a spray of blood, throat sliced and a dirk sticking out of his eye. The man took hold of his knife, boot pressed against the dead guard as they heard the squelch of his eye.

He advanced with a bloody smile, tooth missing and blood dribbling down his chin. Steffon narrowed his eyes in anger, grip adjusting as he nudged at Joffrey. They had fought alongside each other several time, though nowhere near as many as they would need to truly make a fearsome. They were two boys of two and ten and one and ten and unblooded so far. _Well, almost_ he thought.

“I’ve caught me fresh stag,” he growled, face rippling with a gleeful smile.

The man lunged forward, longsword swinging toward his head and Steffon raised his sword to block, arm shaking with impact. It was jarring, having someone attack with strength and not for the first time did Steffon thank the gods for the Baratheon build.

Joffrey swiped across at the man’s middle, and the two brothers were off in their attempt to keep themselves alive. A sharp jab to the thigh from Joff saw his thigh pierced, and the man responded with a quick parry and a sharp backhand. Joffrey’s cheek split open and Steffon saw red as he moved forward in a flurry.

He was tiring, the bandit suddenly faced with the fury of two boys who had been trained by the greatest knight in the realms since they were five. An overhead swing was deflected and Joff sliced at the man’s sword arm, cutting deep. A sharp thrust into the soft flesh of his arm from Steffon, a slice upward across his throat giving him the deathblow as he choked on his blood.

“Prince Steffon!” a knight yelled, the whistle of a blade and years of instinct causing him to fall to the left. A sharp sting across his shoulder blade let him know that he had not been entirely successful. Rolling to his feet, Steffon was greeted to the sight of Joffrey with his blade buried in the belly of their attacker.

The younger boy scrambled backward, face pale and bloodless from shock and Steffon rushed forward as Ser Arys and Ser Boros finished off their opponents.

“Joff,” Steffon asked worriedly. His green eyes were wide with shock, a fragile look in them, and Steffon was uncomfortably reminded of the first time he had witnessed a death.

“I killed him,” Joffrey whispered, fists clenched in his tunic. “Steff, I killed hi—”

“Look at me,” Steffon whispered harshly. He ignored the gold cloaks searching through the bodies and the Kingsguard standing protectively over them. “He was going to kill you Joff, you did the right thing. Do you understand? It was him or you, and he would not have been satisfied with just your surrender.”

Joffrey was breathing in shakily, blinking back the tears in his eyes as he nodded in determination. There was a hint of steel in his younger brother’s eyes, and Steffon was sad to see the loss of innocence in the once bright-eyed boy.

_He hasn’t been that innocent child since he discovered the truth_, Steffon thought angrily.

“Brigands, pirates most like,” a guard called. “They’ve got gold on them.”

“My princes, we should leave,” Ser Arys urged. “We are less than a days ride out from Dyre Den, best we continue to ride hard lest we encounter more of them.”

Once he was certain Joffrey would not collapse, Steffon ordered them to pack up. “Strip them of all gold and any weapons. We’ll carry their loot with us.”

“What of Garitt?” one asked.

Turning north, he saw a guard lying on the ground, blood staining his gold cloak. “Bury him,” Steffon said softly, “and take note of whether he has any family. They shall know of his bravery.”

_That and more_, he thought. Gold could not give them their lost family member, but if Garitt had left behind any family Steffon would see to it that they received his pay for the full duration of the trip.

It took them the better part of an hour to pack and bury Garitt, the guards saying a short prayer for their fallen comrade.

Steffon held tightly to Joffrey until they were ready to ride, only releasing him so that he could climb Fury before they set off at a hard pace.

* * *

The Northern Crownlands had long been neglected; he saw that now. It was one thing to hear and learn of the difficulties that had befallen them, quite another to witness the dilapidated holdfasts and the worn down dirt tracks that passed as a road.

From Rosby to Duskendale the road was well maintained, even further toward Maidenpool. Yet it became narrow and neglected east of Maidenpool, the roads falling apart and only wide enough to allow a horse and a cart to bypass each other.

They were currently at the Antlers, Lord Buckwell offering to host the king’s sons as they went about their journey. Ravens had been sent to the lords whose seats were close to Antlers. Byrch and Cressey, Farring and Follard, Harte and Hogg, Pyle and Rollingford; they had come out in force in response to the ravens, eager to have their grievances heard by their princes.

“They have good lands,” Joffrey muttered as they sat at the head of the Great Hall. He had taken his lessons seriously before they left King’s Landing, spending hours alongside him in the library of the keep learning about the economic value of the Crownlands Houses.

“Arrable land to the north and west, along the border of the Riverlands. They could probably provide food for the their region without interference from the crown.”

The eastern Crownlands was the poorest of their region, bandits and pirates making a home in the coves along the shoreline.

“There are several market towns here,” Steffon murmured to Joffrey, “a possible trade town can be built from their smaller market villages for goods brought into the Crownlands.”

Luncheon had been served; servants were walking about to clear the room of all food and extra guests. The lords were seated at the table with them, their closest knights and advisors spread across the room.

Once the final plates had been removed, the guards of House Buckwell returning to their duties, the Great Hall doors were shut after two of the tables were brought together.

Lord Buckwell had provided a map of the Crownlands for this meeting, his maester spreading across the tables. Joff and he were not here to make promises, not like their trip to Dragonstone, but they were hoping to get a lay of the land and hear the grievances of the lords.

It was far more than they had expected for ones so close to King’s Landing.

“There are brigands roaming my lands,” Lord Rollingford complained. “They steal my animals and terrorize my farmers.”

“Have you lodged a complaint with the Hand?” Joffrey asked. At his negative response, Steffon interjected, “Have a riding of men patrol the farms, my lord. Daily, once in the morning and another in the eve at interchangeable hours so that they cannot expect you.”

“What will be done about these brigands?”

“A raven has been dispatched to the capitol,” Steffon replied, recalling the letter he had sent to his father after the attack. “The king will see it dealt with swiftly.”

The return raven had nearly ordered them to return, but Steffon was even more determined to continue. More problems had made themselves known as they travelled to Antlers; dilapidated holdfasts, partly abandoned land, it was near as bad as Flea Bottom along the coast but that they had turned to brigands and pirates as trade vessels entered The Gullet.

“We have farmers and good land but none to sell it to,” Lord Pyle huffed. His maester was a bastard cousin, Denys Waters, and the man was nodding along, mop of brown hair shifting with a non-existent breeze.

“You sell food to the crown do you not Lord Pyle?” Steffon asked, brows raised in question.

“Of course, Prince Steffon. But all food comes mainly from the Reach,” he continued, “and we cannot possibly keep up with the demand as they do.”

Grimacing, Steffon thought of another way to meet the needs of the Crownlands. They were concentrated mainly along the Blackwater, and he could promise the lords all the ships he wanted to help expand trade.

“What of your fishing barges?” Joffrey asked.

“Moving steadily, Your Grace, we have no cause for complaint there,” Lord Cressey allowed.

Jotting down that specific issue, Steffon gestured for Lord Harte to speak. “My princes,” he puffed, sweat on his brow from overexertion. Edgar Harte had once been tourney knight, breaking lances with members of the Kingsguard and other courtiers during the reign of Aerys Targaryen, but war and the loss of his favourite horse had soured him to the sport, turning instead to his table.

“House Harte has functioning lands and the people to work them, but our taxes to the crown make it difficult to do the necessary upkeep for the area. Nor can we transport our goods beyond the Kingsroad.”

Frowning, Steffon stared at the map, finger resting on Sow’s Horn. “Lord Harte, where would you transport your grain to?”

“Why, the eastern Crownlands, Your Grace,” he said flustered.

“Dyre Den is a smuggler’s haven,” Lord Farring interjected. “It’s not safe to transport anything there.”

The lords began bickering and Steff shared a look of exasperation with Joffrey. It had been like this at Dyre Den, at The Whispers, even Dragonstone had not been immune to the blustering of lords.

“Unfortunately Lord Harte, I cannot reduce your taxation though I shall of course bring your concerns to the council,” Steffon interrupted.

Edgar Harte turned a shade of red before he stammered his thanks, sullen in the refusal to lower his costs.

“As to the transportation issue my lord, your keep is close to the Kingsroad and can be sent down to King’s Landing for shipment.”

“That is the usual business Prince Steffon, however selling out of King’s Landing is itself proving costly,” Maester Denys added.

“What of Maidenpool?” Joff asked, frowning at the map. “It is fairly close to you.”

“Lord Tully imposes his own taxes on shipments out of the Riverlands Your Grace,” Lord Buckwell stated. The man looked sour at the thought of paying taxes to Hoster Tully, and Steffon recalled they had fought against each other at Stony Sept.

“Duskendale,” Joffrey stated.

Latching onto that idea, Steffon pointed at the harbour on the map. “Aye, Duskendale still has a functioning port, though it does not see as much traffic as King’s Landing. It is one possible route for your goods,” he offered.

It could work; Duskendale would see use again, and the port would bring more income to Lord Rykker and thus to the crown. They had only the Crownlords paying directly to the throne, and Steffon meant to see them succeed so as to secure the city.

* * *

Myrcella let out a squeal of delighted laughter as Steffon swept her into his arms. She had been hard at work, beginning her lessons in embroidery, and Steffon was determined to spend as much time with the youngest children as he could.

“Sweet sister,” Steffon grinned, twirling the little girl about, “have you missed me?”

Laughing, Cella squirmed in his hold. “Steff! I-I-I mis—” she broke out into fierce giggles, gasping for breath as Steffon took pity and let her down.

Cella stamped her foot, hands on her hip as she attempted to give him the same displeased look their mother had mastered. It was adorable, and he had to work hard to hide his smile lest she grow angry with him.

Sniffing in feigned disdain she sternly told him, “A lady is not to be dragged about, a princess less so.”

Joffrey swooped in to ruffle her golden curls, Tommen dangling from his arms, and Steffon let out a booming laugh at the look on her face.

He had missed them while traveling. Joff and he had spent a moon on Dragonstone before traveling throughout the Crownlands, turning what had been a planned two-moon journey into a near year absence. Cella had grown taller; their mother in miniature but that she always had a pleasant smile on her face, green eyes glinting with mirth. A pang hit him then, at the sight of Tommen’s neat curls, face losing some of the chubbiness of the young child he knew.

They had missed their namedays, both Cella and Tom. The little prince and princess were now six and seven; taller and quieter in the moons they had been gone, yet they were eagerly asking after stories.

Joffrey was regaling them with the tale of Lord Hogg and Ser Elwood Harte who had fought bitterly over a merchant’s daughter and some manner of insult. They had both been dumbstruck to find the lady in question gone, taking with her the precious trinkets each had gifted her, drowning their sorrows in drink.

“Have you seen Mother?” Cella asked quietly.

Joffrey stopped his next tale abruptly, staring at Cella as if he had never seen her. Steffon glanced uneasily at the door, as if expecting someone to come barging in at any moment.

“Cella,” Steffon said, “we greeted them upon arrival. In the throne room, sister.”

Joffrey’s face was blank, as much as it could be when any mention of their mother came, but his eyes were a roiling storm.

“A _proper_ greeting?” She asked.

“Yes, sister, a _proper greeting_ as befits our lovely Queen from her royal sons,” Joffrey spat bitterly.

“Joffrey,” Steffon called sharply. Tommen was staring at his siblings in apprehension, and Steffon glared at Joff in response.

“Apologies, sister. I should not have taken out my anger on you.” Joffrey offered with a reluctant smile.

Cella remained quiet, looking at Joffrey with a sad look on her face, and Steffon felt a pang of despair. Tom and Cella were so young and had been spoiled by the two of them to make up for the knowledge of their parent’s failing marriage. It was so easy to forget that Myrcella was far more observant than she let on.

“You were upset when we left Casterly Rock. There is _talk_ Joff, from the court,” Myrcella stressed. “Whatever happened to upset you, move on from it brother.”

Joff’s jaw tightened in stubbornness, and Steffon shot him a fierce look, shaking his head. He looked sullen, and Steffon worried about the inevitable explosion of Joffrey’s temper.

“When did you get so smart,” he lightly teased his sister.

“Cella’s the smartest,” Tommen chirped.

Gasping loudly in feigned horror, Steffon dragged himself over to lie in front of Tommen. “And what of me, my prince? Am _I_ not the smartest person you have met?”

Tommen began giggling loudly as Steffon attacked his sides, fingers digging into the soft flesh as the boy squirmed. From the corner of his eye, Steffon saw Joff giving Myrcella a tight hug, face buried in her curls as he kept Tommen occupied.

It was only once they were seated for the feast, music floating across the hall and the courtiers’ murmurs filling any silences as platters of food were passed around, that Steffon brought up their earlier conversation.

“She’s right, you know,” Steffon said around a goblet of wine.

Joffrey’s hand tightened on his fork, the only sign that he had heard what was said. Leaning in close, Steffon stole a grape from Joff’s plate, staring at the younger boy with gimlet eyes.

“We are in a dangerous position, brother,” he murmured, smile plastered to his face as people came to give their greetings. “We cannot afford disunity amongst ourselves. Not now.”

“After everything she has done—” Joffrey hissed.

“Aye, after everything she has done. People will notice – _have already noticed_ – that the queen and her son have had a falling out. There will be questions asked, questions that we do not need others to contemplate.”

Sighing, Joffrey turned to look at him; eyes glancing behind to see how close the Kingsguard were standing. “I’ll not forgive her actions,” he said lowly.

“Nor do I expect you to,” Steffon responded candidly. “But for now we must present a united front. We are playing the great game brother, and more than our crowns are on the line.”

“Says the prince with his own court,” Joff snorted in contempt.

“The difference, little brother,” Steff replied amused, “is that my ‘court’ as you call it is in response to our rather stubborn Hand.”

Jon Arryn sat next to the King, his wife beside him with a glum look on her face. “He might prove a nuisance,” Joffrey muttered.

“His loyalty is to the king he fostered,” Steffon murmured. “What might he do with such information in his hands?”

A small grimace was the only acknowledgement he received, but Steffon knew his message had come across.

He stood to cross the table toward Cella’s seat, the young princess deemed old enough to stay at feasts for longer periods of time. “Little sister, would you do me the honour of a dance?” he asked with a gallant bow.

Smiling, Myrcella accepted his hand with a curtsy, gliding over to the centre of the hall. Steffon noted the exact moment Myrcella noticed Joffrey dancing with Mother, a look of relief flashing through her eyes.

“You worry too much,” Steffon murmured, twirling her in his arms. He had been a terrible dancer in another lifetime, but lessons had been enforced his entire childhood as Cersei Lannister would not suffer her children to lack in courtly matters.

“You did not hear what they were saying,” Cella countered. “Nor did you realize that even Mother does not know why Joff is upset.”

“No, I did not. Ten moons has given them enough time to whisper.”

Pursing her lips, Cella stepped closer as he spun her in, voice lowered, “Uncle Renly is here with his Tyrell squire, and – ”

“Fear not sister,” Steffon said with a sharp smile. “I shall be more vigilant.” Eyes flashing to the head table, Steff noted Uncle Renly and his former squire seated close to the king.

“May I cut in?” Joff asked. Mother was next to him, hand tucked into his elbow, a content smile on her face. Joffrey was smiling at Cella, and Steffon was relieved to note that it seemed genuine.

“Mother,” Steffon gestured with his hand, taking the queen’s arm in his. They were playing a lively tune, one from the Reach if he recalled correctly, and Steffon danced in silence as his mother scrutinized his face.

“You’ve grown,” she remarked. It was true, of course. Steffon had returned with less fat on his cheeks and more muscle on his frame, the training from the knights not stopping as the princes went about their journey. Even more telling, Steff was now taller than his mother; inches only, but he was only three and ten and like to continue growing. _Mayhaps I’ll be of a height with Father_, he thought in relish.

“I’ve been told that is what happens when one ages Mother,” Steffon quipped. She smiled faintly, a sharp dig of her nails into his shoulder showing her displeasure.

“When do you plan on making your next journey?”

She had never approved of their plans, and Steffon had spent countless nights arguing with her while attempting to keep silent the true reason behind their sudden need to shore up support.

“Not until the new year,” Steffon said truthfully. “I’ve missed home, and neither Cella nor Tom would forgive us if we missed another nameday.”

She had a queer look on her face, a flash of displeasure in her green eyes. “Joffrey will be going with you.”

Inclining his head, Steffon quickly glanced around him as he twirled her about the room. They were watching them, the eyes of the courtiers following their movements as they had Joffrey’s earlier turn.

“Let them see their princes and remember who holds the crown now.”

Bowing, Steffon placed a kiss on his mother’s hand before escorting her to the high table. He sat next to Joffrey, Myrcella seated between Tommen and Uncle Tyrion. Uncle Jaime was stood behind the queen’s chair, Ser Barristan behind the king. Feeling a glare on him, Steff looked to see Tyrion’s mismatched eyes twinkling, glass raised in a toast.

* * *

The council had assembled a day after his return, though Steffon did not attend that first meeting, instead spending the day with Tommen in the yard. Myrcella had watched over Tom as he began his lessons at arms, sometimes embroidering in her room as the little prince practiced his manoeuvres with a wooden sword.

He and Joff had taken over Tommen’s training for the day, helping the younger boy with his footwork as they instructed Cella on the handling of a dagger under the awkwardly disapproving glance of Ser Arys.

Today was the day he and Joff were meant to update the council on their trip. Ravens had been sent explaining their prolonged journey, but Steffon wanted to give them a clear picture of exactly what was wrong.

_If they are like to listen_, he groused to himself.

Just three and ten, but Steffon had worked hard to drag Westeros into prosperity. He couldn’t tell them he had the memories of a boy who had lived in a time when things seemed impossible, but using that to improve their lives had been his goal, hampered by stubborn lords who seemingly _liked_ the status quo.

They entered the room, Steffon sitting at the head of the table with Joff to his left. Lord Arryn was seated to his right, Baelish and Pycelle next to him with Uncle Stannis and Uncle Renly next to Joff, Varys seated between the two brothers. Ser Barristan stood inside the room, eager to hear the report from his squires yet unwilling to sit.

“My lords,” Steffon began pleasantly. “It has been quite some time since we last gathered.”

“Indeed, my prince. An unfortunately long delay,” Lord Arryn responded.

“A necessary one,” Steffon corrected.

There was a sour look on his face, and Steffon barely resisted smirking smugly at him. Lord Arryn reluctantly handed over a sheaf of parchment, and looking at it Steffon was relieved to see that Uncle Stannis had upheld his end of the bargain.

_I will never doubt the man_, Steffon vowed.

“The Crown will cover the cost of a dozen ships, to be spread amongst the Lords of the Narrow Sea. An additional forty ships will be commissioned in this year.”

“And the total number of ships?” Joffrey asked curiously, gazing at the figures scrawled on the parchment. Coin enough for several ships, as well as the labour costs.

“A hundred should suffice,” Lord Arryn said.

Brows knitted in thought, Steffon glanced at Stannis to see the man grinding his teeth. “A hundred,” he stated.

“Yes, we already have four hundred ships, Prince Steffon.”

“And these new ships are meant to replace them. Remove the lumber from the ships themselves if you wish Lord Arryn, but a hundred will not suffice. We would severely limit ourselves should we hold only a hundred of this type,” Steffon retorted.

“The coin for a hundred ships and labour alone are costly,” Baelish interjected, “not to mention the current work being done on the sewers.”

“Work that seems to be doing as we intended,” Joff stated dryly. “Used to be that you could smell the shit from two leagues out and now it is only noticeable at half that distance.”

Uncle Tyrion had done an admirable job in their absences, even with parts of the city under construction. It would take another year, year and a half at most he had estimated, and Steffon was eager to see the full results.

“You increased the tax on the Crownlands Lord Baelish,” Steffon frowned, recalling Edgar Harte’s complaints. “Where would all that coin be going?”

“To the ships, and a portion to the King’s spending,” Baelish replied smoothly.

“The king’s spending was covered was it not?” Joff asked. “I do recall your ability to come up with coin for Father’s tourneys.”

“And how much tax is going to the ships? The islands are paying for the cost of several ships themselves,” Steffon added. Lord Varys was smiling, he saw, and Steffon and Joffrey stared at Littlefinger in suspicion.

“The cost of material for a large endeavour such as this is quite high,” he replied, eyes flashing with unknown emotion.

“Where are you importing the lumber from?” Uncle Stannis asked with his perpetual frown.

“Parts from the Riverlands, the Stormlands and the Reach,” Lord Arryn responded.

“And what of the North?” Steffon asked in disbelief. Lord Arryn smiled at him, and Steffon’s hand twitched with the urge to throttle the man in realization.

“I am sure Lord Stark would agree to the sale of lumber at cost, especially as the North is filled with forests,” Steffon said pleasantly, eyes flashing in cold anger. “Of course, we can also revise their tax agreement for the next year to exchange coin for an equal cost of lumber.”

_Strike hard and strike fast, and do not let them take you for a puppet_, Lord Tywin had told him, and Steffon was frustrated at having to put that to use.

“Revise their tax agreement,” Lord Baelish echoed faintly.

“Of course,” Steffon said with a shark-like smile. “You have increased the taxes for the Crownlords, and that gold will be put to use on the ships. Lord Stark pays how much in taxes?”

“The North pays around one hundred thousand dragons in taxes, less than others considering their sparse population and harsh lands,” Uncle Stannis answered.

“A million dragons in total to the Crown yearly from all the kingdoms,” Steffon stated slowly, “and yet you have seen fit to increase their costs Lord Baelish.”

“The upkeep required for the kingdoms is costly Prince Steffon, a difficult job for us all,” Baelish said.

Snorting, Joffrey replied scathingly, “Then we are wasting millions on nothing, my lords, for there is nothing to be seen.”

“Prince Joffrey?” Arryn asked with a frown.

“As you recall, we spent the better part of a year in the Crownlands, my lords,” Steffon began. “Beyond Duskendale, the road to Maidenpool requires upkeep. East of Maidenpool is a dirt road that leads to Dyre Den, and the road along the shoreline from Duskendale to The Whispers is practically non-existent.”

“Not to mention the rumours we have heard of the state of the Kingsroad north of Moat Cailin,” Joffrey added.

“A change to the roads?” Lord Varys asked, brow raised in surprise.

“The Kingsroad is the responsibility of the crown and council in conjunction with the Lord Paramounts, though we bear the greater cost,” Steffon responded. “A dilapidated road speaks poorly of the king.”

“The Kingsroad has been in that state for years,” Arryn protested.

“Then perhaps it is time to rectify the mistakes of the last rulers,” Steffon retorted.

The air was thick with tension; if he had thought the moons spent away from King’s Landing would reduce the issues between him and the Lord Hand Steffon was sorely disappointed. Jon Arryn seemed to have taken his absence with gusto, and Steffon was here to remind the man that it was to him the council would answer to in future.

_I will have to speak to Father before they can sway him_, he thought.

“You will be pleased to know, Prince Steffon, that the smallfolk are singing your praises,” Lord Varys spoke up.

“Words are wind,” Uncle Stannis grumbled, “and their sentiments change with their mood.”

Hiding an exasperated smile at his surly uncle, Steffon noticed Joffrey cover his smirk with his hand.

“How many of them are working on the ships?” Steffon asked.

“Hundreds have offered their work as labourers, and several young boys have shown an aptitude for ship building I have heard.”

“The smallfolk becoming shipwrights?” Pycelle scoffed.

_Yes, and we can make them loyal maesters_, Steffon thought. It was something to return to at a later date, but if they truly showed promise he was willing to sponsor them to earn a few links at the Citadel.

“Deckhands mostly,” Lord Varys replied. “A number of them are young enough to learn their way about a ship, and they are willing to take the risk of the seas in return for a regular meal and some coin.”

“Will we have enough work for them?” Steffon asked, gaze flicking to Stannis.

“Not in King’s Landing, there are too many here. But the Crownlords will require deckhands with the influx of ships,” Uncle Stannis said.

“Has there been any trouble with the law?” Joffrey asked.

“Not so much, though a city such as this will always have its fair share of brawls,” Renly grinned.

“There were bandits in Cracklaw Point,” Steffon pointed out.

“A riding was sent out,” Uncle Renly informed them, “though I suppose I shall have to make certain it’s rooted out.”

“Sending the Goldcloaks to Cracklaw Point?” Lord Arryn questioned.

“Not necessarily the Goldcloaks, though the King’s Justice will have to be upheld. Especially as there will be a harbour built there,” Steffon stated.

Uproar met his statement, Lord Arryn complaining over the cost as the others voiced their opinions.

Stifling a sigh, Steffon snapped, “King’s Landing cannot control the only harbour in the Crownlands!”

“There is a harbour in Gulltown,” Lord Baelish protested.

“Yes, a harbour in _the Vale_,” Steffon replied scathingly. “A harbour, which pays its taxes to Lord Arryn. A port in Cracklaw Point would see taxes paid directly to the Crown, as well as all tariffs remaining in the area for maintenance.”

Lips tightening, the Lord Hand said heatedly, “You would disrupt trade in the Vale Prince Steffon.”

“That is not my intention, my lord, nor will that occur. The port will allow for the shipment of goods into the Crownlands, not interrupting trade meant for either Gulltown or Maidenpool,” Steffon countered.

“A harbour in the Crownlands is necessary for the expanded trade we are expecting,” Steffon added. “King’s Landing will not be able to handle the influx of goods should the ships prove able to carry a larger portion of trade.”

“They have already proven to do so,” Varys interrupted.

Seeing the curious look Steffon sent him, the eunuch smiled enigmatically. “A ship has been completed Prince Steffon, the flagship of the new fleet, and it has proven to carry at least three times as much as the older ships. The builders have called it _The Storm Prince_,” he finished slyly.

Eyes tightening, Steffon nodded in acknowledgement. “How many ships have been completed?”

“Three here in King’s Landing,” Uncle Stannis answered, “_The Storm Prince_, _King Robert’s Fury_ and _Lady Lyanna_.”

Joffrey jerked, glowering at the name of their ship, and Steffon had to bite his cheek to stop from screaming. How many years would Lyanna Stark haunt their family? _Mother must have thrown a fit_, he thought, _the ghost of their marriage bed_. Bad enough Robert had named an older ship after her, now the best of their ships was to bear the name of his lost betrothed. _All we need is a ship called _The Golden Twins_ and we shall air all our laundry to the realm_, he thought sourly.

“How many others?” Joffrey asked, voice tight with anger.

“One each for the Lords of the Narrow Sea, with their second nearly complete,” was the answer.

Mercifully, there were no complaints raised about the Velaryons being given plans to build ships; he assumed Uncle Stannis had bulldozed through their arguments and Steff was grateful for having the man on their side.

“It is nearly time for dinner,” Pycelle chimed in.

“Is there any other business to discuss?” Uncle Renly asked.

“I would like to see a new contract negotiation for the North, Lord Hand, Lord Baelish. An allowance of twently thousand dragons in return for its worth in lumber,” Steffon insisted.

“Twenty thousand dragons is a lot of money, my prince,” Baelish protested.

“Well worth the cost if we are to build forty ships in the next year,” Steffon retorted.

“We do not have enough builders to meet that demand,” Lord Arryn pressed.

“We have the labourers,” Joffrey pointed out.

“A letter to Lord Manderly and Lord Redwyne as well, then,” Steff added cheerily. “They have shipwrights that can be loaned to the us for the year.”

The Hand had a sour look on his face, and Steffon was filled with smug satisfaction at having gained the upper hand.

_Now to convince Father,_ he thought.

* * *

To Steffon’s utter surprise, Robert Baratheon had proven relatively easy to convince.

“I beg your pardon?” Steffon asked. He was flummoxed, having anticipated a lengthy conversation – more an argument – with the king.

The king had been drinking, but Steff didn’t think his father was deep in his cups. “You can go on with your ships,” Father repeated. They were sitting in the king’s solar, not a whore in sight, and Steffon was ruthlessly ignoring the last conversation they had here.

“It’s not just the ships,” Steffon added slowly.

“Aye, Jon has been complaining something fierce. A harbour,” he frowned. “You would insult the Vale.”

Biting back his scathing retort he instead said, “The Vale will not suffer for the placement of a harbour close by.”

_Not when I don’t intend it to become a large one,_ Steffon thought. He did not trust Jon Arryn, had recognized that the man was working to the benefit of his king _and_ his kingdom. It was expected for council members to benefit their lands, but Steffon had the sense that the Hand wished for the king to remain reliant on his Lords Paramount.

_The better for his Lannister children to be left to the mercy of the Great Lords_, he thought darkly. Not while there was breath in his body, and not with a small fleet within reach of Gulltown and able to disrupt their trade should the Vale ever entertain the thought of Rebellion.

“How many ships?” Robert asked.

“At least two hundred,” Steffon said, “the better for the fleet to be more balanced. And you won’t have to rely on the Redwyne ships,” he wheedled.

Scoffing, Robert drank his beer mumbling darkly about prissy grapes. “The dragons men?”

“Uncle Stannis will take care of them,” Steffon said smoothly, hoping the king did not notice his nervousness at the thought.

Waving his hand in agreement, the king grunted out a burp. Determinedly ignoring the stench Steff asked, “So we can go ahead?”

“Aye, you can build more of your blasted ships,” Robert agreed. “And that harbour, though keep it in The Whispers, the better to not agitate the Vale and keep an eye on those bloody isles.”

“Thank you, Father,” he said with a sincere smile. This had been the first time they had had an amicable conversation that did not involve the wonders of battle.

“Will you write the letter to Lord Stark?”

“What do you want to write to Ned for?” Father asked quizzically.

“The council has agreed to rewrite his taxes, replacing a percentage of coin with lumber to build the fleet. And a letter to Lord Manderly requesting a few shipwrights,” he added offhandly.

“Where is the letter?”

Grinning, Steffon plucked a parchment from the table, highlighting the sections of the contract. “All it requires is either your seal or Lord Arryn.”

“I’ll sign the damned thing,” Robert grumbled, eyes bloodshot. Handing over the contract as well as the letter, Steffon watched as his father scrawled his signature before sealing it with the King’s official seal, the same procedure being done for Lord Manderly. A separate parchment was taken, Father including a personal note to Ned Stark, whom he had not seen in eight years.

Grinning to himself in success, Steffon nearly missed what his father said. “She would have loved that, helping the North.”

Taken aback, he stared at his father in surprise. “What?”

“Lyanna. A feisty one, she never would have stood for me becoming what I am now,” he said forlornly. Steffon bit his tongue to keep the words bubbling at the back of his throat from spilling forth. “You should have been my son with her,” he finished.

Fury flashed in his eyes, and Steffon for the first time felt the thrum of his magic outside his nightmares. It was not enough to lash out accidentally, but it yanked Steffon back to reality.

“Of course Father, may I be excused? I would like to send these ravens immediately,” Steffon asked coolly.

The king waved him off, a fresh cup of ale in his hands as he stared desolately at the hearth. A whore would cure him of his misery, courtesy of Littlefinger.

_What would either of them think,_ Steffon wondered, _if they knew they both wished I were the child of the person they loved_?

Snorting at the thought, Steffon rushed to the rookery, Pycelle waiting to send out the letters. He watched him like a hawk, ensuring the man did not break the seal, and only when he saw them fly off did he retreat to his quarters.

He came across a furious Joffrey, the sound of him hacking at his bedpost with a wooden sword drawing him to his rooms. His hair looked dishevelled, armour skewed, and Steffon picked up a bottle of Arbor Red someone had brought up.

“Stag for your thoughts?” Steffon offered, making his way to the cushioned seats in the sitting area. He waited calmly as Joff threw the sword away, taking a pull straight from the bottle as his brother sat beside him. Offering him the bottle, Steffon watched as Joffrey guzzled wine like a seasoned drunk.

“The king has managed to impregnate a serving woman in Casterly Rock,” Joff muttered scathingly.

“Ahh, the wonders of King Robert’s cock. Impregnating others with surprising ease,” Steff quipped.

“Mother had the children killed, the woman sold to reavers,” Joff spat bitterly.

_Fucking hell_, Steffon thought.

“And so you vented your anger at your bedpost,” Steffon added dryly.

“No, I nearly broke Uncle Jaime’s wrist,” Joff retorted.

Ah, that would cause a bit of trouble. He didn’t blame the younger boy, not when Jaime had planted three children in his sister who was content to kill the king’s bastards.

“Let it not be said that Cersei Lannister would suffer the indignity of bastards,” Joff stated ironically.

Taking the bottle, Steffon took another pull as he ruminated on the dysfunctional family he had been born to.

“Why are you upset?” Joff asked.

“Father has told me in his most wretched voice that he wished I was the son of his precious Lady Lyanna,” Steffon said bitterly.

“The Gods have cursed us to have to put up with the two of them,” Joff replied sourly.

Nodding his agreement, Steffon and Joffrey spent the remainder of the day drinking the bottle of Arbor Red before they ordered two bottles of Dornish wine to be brought to their rooms. Tongues would be wagging they knew, but for once they wanted to mourn the lack of normality in their family in peace.

Uncle Tyrion would gleefully find the two of them in the morning, crumpled together at the foot of Joff’s bed, clothes wrinkled and reeking of alcohol as the brothers experienced their first hangover.

* * *

It had taken four moons before Steffon began to see the fruit of his labour.

Lord Stark had agreed with the changes to his payment, ordering his people to cut down trees in the Wolfswood, near Karhold and Flint’s Cliffs and Bear Island, allowing his bannermen to replace gold with lumber.

The first shipment of lumber had arrived two moons prior, in a Manderly ship alongside three shipwrights from White Harbour. The men were stocky, tall and pale with the colouring of Northmen, and they had been baffled at the sight of _The Storm Prince_ sitting in the harbour. Their bewilderment had lasted for an hour before the glee set in at the thought of working on these ships.

He was certain that the North would begin to build similar ships, and Steffon was grateful they were planning to ensure closer ties to that kingdom.

Lord Manderly had also sent along his second son, Ser Wendel, to oversee Manderly interests at court. The knight was tall and stocky, larger than the average knight, bald head gleaming in the sunlight. He was always present at court, the blue-green of his doublet standing out amongst the reds and golds popularized by the queen.

Steffon had met the man for a private lunch in the royal apartments, the knight entertaining him and Joff with stories of the Merman’s court. He was a boisterous individual, and King Robert had taken to him.

Of course, Ser Wendel had been offered a place as an unofficial advisor to the crown, working alongside Uncle Stannis on the building of ships and improvements to shipping.

His men had come at the same time as the Redwyne builders, and Steffon had been thoroughly amused as they seemed to compete over the ships.

The Manderlys had called their first ship _The Golden Stag_, and Steff had laughed himself hoarse at the look on Joff’s face when he realized it was meant to honour Myrcella. The Redwynes refused to be outshone by Northmen and had named their first ship _The Prince’s Fury_.

The Mallisters were expected to arrive any day now, the king graciously agreeing to allow them to build several ships of the new design. “The better to hold those fucking squids in place,” he had boomed. Uncle Tyrion had taken advantage of the placement of royal ships along the coasts, scouring King’s Landing with Joff to find loyal men to place in Seaguard. Lord Tywin he knew was hard at work, having been the first to see the designs, and Steffon was certain there were several ships docked in Lannisport.

Walking into his solar, Steffon threw himself onto his chair. He and Lord Arryn had reached a shaky truce; unsurprisingly, Steffon’s words had proven true regarding the crown’s finances. They had shilled out thousands of dragons to pay the labourers for the sewers and the ships and the shipwrights, each of them in turn spending coin at the bars and inns and whorehouses of King’s Landing.

The Crown had reaped an increased share of gold, the taxes being owed increasing in the city alone, and from the last Steffon had heard, the road work being done in the Crownlands was driving coin in those regions, as was the prospect of a harbour. Lord Crabb had sent an effusive letter to the king, wishing all the grace of the gods on him and his.

It was not perfect, but he was glad to see a slow change. The Hand of the King had begrudgingly accepted what was happening, and they were finally working on plans to continue this increase, alongside bringing more loyal lords to King’s Landing.

His hard earned silence was broken at the sound of a commotion outside his door, his mother barging in past an unrepentant Ser Meryn.

She was seething, green eyes glinting in fury; Steffon knew what had upset her, but he was beyond caring.

“Mother,” he said pleasantly, “do sit, I’ll have someone bring up a bottle of wine.”

“You placed other lords in positions that we could have benefitted from,” she shrilled – ignoring him – hands clenched on the chair, as she stubbornly remained standing. “Do you have any idea what—”

“It seems that you are the one with no understanding of the situation,” Steffon snapped at her, anger filling him as he stood. “Continue to fill the court with Lannisters as you wish, _Mother_, and you shall be forced to hold the might of one kingdom against the others.”

Stubbornly, she refused to listen to his words. “None can match the might of Casterly Rock.”

“The other kingdoms would say different,” Steffon retorted.

“My father—”

“—has done us no favours! The Lannisters are despised for Lord Tywin’s actions.”

“The lion does not bow to the whims of sheep,” she said dismissively.

Sighing, Steffon dragged a hand across his face, dropping to his seat. He was only four and ten, and already he grew weary of playing the game. His parents had made things more difficult, spiting those they should have been drawing closer to them and ignoring the ones who helped them to the throne.

Robert had been famous for turning enemies into friends, yet he could see no evidence of it.

“It is Father they crowned king; four kingdoms rose in rebellion and helped place him on the throne—no don’t interrupt me! Grandfather Tywin joined the Rebellion late yet he has reaped the greatest rewards.”

“As he should,” she hissed, green eyes spitting fire, “considering it was he who secured the throne for this family. You would give valuable positions to those savages.”

“Yes,” Steff mocked, “a crown secured with the needlessly violent death of babes that the other kingdoms curse us for.

Of them all, only the North answered their liege lords call in full, and we have spat on their allegiance and their sacrifices.”

“Ned Stark is too loyal to your father,” she scoffed.

“To Father, yes, and his bannermen fought alongside the man. But they have not seen any gain for their sacrifices, were not rewarded for Father building his bloody throne on the death of Northmen. They know naught of Joff and I, nothing of the sons of the man they helped crown. I’ll not have you put us in danger so you could have golden heads surrounding you at court Mother.”

She stared contemptuously at him, and Steffon glowered back at her. Seeing that he would give no quarter, his mother swept out of his rooms, red gown fluttering as she moved.

Groaning, Steffon slumped in place, face buried in his arms as he dreamt of a simple life away from the struggles of kingship.

_Heavy is the head that wears the crown_, he thought resentfully, wishing for a moment that he could drink his way through kingship, as his father was intent on doing.

* * *

Steffon knelt at the foot of the Iron Throne, the entire court watching as the High Septon made his way forward.

His knighthood was a spectacle for the masses, their young prince earning his spurs at four and ten. Father was seated upon the throne puffed up in pride, though he had been slightly sullen when Steffon refused his original intent to knight him himself.

_“I am Ser Barristan’s squire, Father, and I would have him knight me._”

Joffrey was brimming with envy, though he was also slightly smug. The little shit. He missed the age where he would be younger than Daemon Blackfyre when earning his spurs, but still held out hope that he would be younger than either Steffon or Uncle Jaime. The golden knight had watched in disbelief as his nephew was told he was to be knighted, and the possibility of Joffrey being knighted just as young had filled the man with annoyed pride.

Father’s talk with Joffrey about being knighted had left them both in a sullen mood. Joffrey was determined to be a knight, had worked exceptionally hard during his lessons at arms, and refused the notion of earning his spurs until such a time as he had truly earned it, whether it be in battle or through proficient skill. Ser Barristan had been beaming in pride at the blond, sure of his choice of squire.

The cool touch of the holy oils upon his brow brought him back to the present as the High Septon drew the seven-pointed star on his head. He had given a small sermon, speaking to the crowd of the Warrior’s grace, of the honour of knighthood. Steffon had stood vigil in the castle sept, Ser Preston keeping watch over his charge, and he was dead on his feet, awake only through the rush of excitement at what was to occur.

Finally, finally, just as Steff’s knees were beginning to feel the floor dig in, Ser Barristan stepped forward. The sound of his blade as he unsheathed it was like sweet music, and Steffon felt a thrum of excitement, his heart racing in anticipation.

This was something _he_ had earned. Not for his name, nor his station as a prince, but a testament to Steffon Baratheon’s skill and hard work.

He felt the first tap of the sword on his shoulder, Ser Barristan’s clear voice ringing across the room. “Steffon of the House Baratheon, in the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maiden I charge you to protect all women.”

There was a heaviness to the sword before Ser Barristan lifted it for the final time, a settling of another duty. “Arise as Ser Steffon Baratheon, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

There was a thunderous roar as the court celebrated the moment. Ser Barristan clasped forearms with his prince, and Steffon felt as if he could take on the world. Father was roaring in pride, shouting for the feast to begin and continue well into the night. Mother had approached him, placing a kiss to his cheeks.

“Well done, my love,” she smiled. Knowing her, Steffon was certain much of her satisfaction came from having a son knighted at a young age. Younger than Uncle Jaime, even Uncle Renly’s former squire Loras Tyrell who had been five and ten when he earned his spurs.

“Thank you, Mother,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her cheeks.

His siblings rushed over to him, and Steffon paused to accept their congratulations. Myrcella and Tommen were beaming, pressing themselves against him and forgetting the watchful eyes of the court for the nonce. Joffrey gave him a mocking bow, and Steffon let out a sharp laugh.

“Give it a year, brother. I daresay you’ll have earned your spurs by then.”

Joff preened in acknowledgement. _The bloody ponce_, he thought fondly. Father’s hand gripped his shoulder tightly, the king shaking him as he boomed, “That’s my boy! Younger than that bloody rose of Renly’s!”

Steffon smiled, basking in the moment. For once, his parents were not at each other’s throats, were united in their pride over their son, and everyone was in good spirits.

_It’ll only last until Joff and I leave a fortnight from now. Best enjoy it while it we can_, he thought.

They were to be feasting all day; orders had been made to the kitchens for the king’s favoured meats to be readied, platters of trout, chicken, and salmon in addition. The king had been in a generous mood, ordering the bakers in the Street of Flour to craft all manner of confections to be handed out to the people of King’s Landing so they may partake in the festivities. The council had managed to talk him down from throwing another tourney, and he had agreed when Steff and Joff decided to expand the fete to all those within the city walls.

Steffon had been congratulated far more times than he cared to remember; courtiers courting the prince’s favour, servants of the Red Keep fondly congratulating the prince they had watched grow, merchant’s who had managed to gain entrance to the keep on this day.

It was slightly overwhelming, and he was certain such a spectacle was not normal behaviour.

“You’re thinking much too hard when there is splendid wine in your vicinity,” Uncle Tyrion’s voice cut in.

Turning in surprise, Steffon fondly greeted his uncle. “Uncle Tyrion, by all means, help yourself to the king’s wine.”

“The queen’s most like,” Tyrion quipped, reaching for a jug of cooled Arbor Red as he slid into the empty seat at the high table. “As I said, stop thinking so much.”

“I am not thinking too hard,” Steffon retorted.

A snort from his left let him know his sibling’s opinion, and Steffon shot them a glare of betrayal. Cella and Tom merely smiled angelically as Joffrey coughed to hide his laughter.

“You are the eldest prince of a new dynasty nephew, and you have shown tremendous martial prowess in addition to your care for their welfare,” Tyrion stated. “Allow the people their fun, let them revel in the future of House Baratheon of King’s Landing.”

Tyrion looked as if he was having the time of his life; wine flowed freely, barrels of it being brought up in anticipation of the celebrations, and he was in good spirits.

“You are nearly a man,” Tyrion continued. “All that is left is to introduce you to the wonders of women and you shall be well on your way to being considered a man grown.”

Steffon choked on his wine, a sour look on his face as he glowered at his uncle. Tyrion looked entirely unrepentant, eyes twinkling as he continued to sip his wine.

* * *

Storm’s End truly deserved its name, for what other castle was continuously battered by the sea as it was. It was strong, a veritable fortress, and Steffon thought it would prove a rather difficult castle to take.

They had been there for a moon, the crashing waves soothing Steffon. In their short time there, they had witnessed no less than three storms.

They had set out early, before the sun was at the highest point in the sky. Father and Mother had come to see them off, the king agreeing that they needed to spend time exploring away from their duties. Mother had been sour at the prospect of another near year of travel while she remained at court, but the queen was used to the luxuries of King’s Landing, had never enjoyed the Stormlands, and would rather never set foot in the Reach if it could be helped.

Uncle Stannis had merely ground his teeth together when he heard of their final destination for this journey. His hatred of the Tyrell’s continued to this day and he was hostile at the thought of Mace Tyrell potentially gaining closer ties to the crown. _Bad enough that they had Redwyne men hard at work building the Royal Fleet_, he thought dryly.

“Uncle Stannis’s heart may fail him should he know what you are up to brother,” Joffrey had laughed.

They had taken the Kings Road south to Storm’s End, camping in the Kingswood as they went, with the only castle on their way being Bronzegate. Lord Buckler had been sent a raven, warning him of the Princes’ retinue to give him time to prepare, and the man had done an excellent job, eagerly feasting his king’s sons.

The Stormlords were proud to have one of their own on the throne, and they had been feasting every day for the duration of their stay. Lords across the lands, from those closest to King’s Landing, to Marcher Lords, the Lords of the Rainwood, and the Isles of Estermont and Tarth had been present.

They had held an impromptu melee, Uncle Renly present alongside his former squire. The training yard of Storm’s End was large, surrounded by the curtain wall on one end.

Ser Barristan had not joined them for this leg of the journey, and Steffon and Joffrey made use of his absence to spar with the fiercely martial Stormlords.

“Win against them and you’ll have their undying loyalty,” Joff snorted, recalling the stories Robert had told them of his three battles against his bannermen.

“Eh, at least put forth a good showing,” Steffon murmured. “Some of these men have enough energy to go ten rounds with a whore.”

Ser Rolland Storm had just knocked Ser Brus Buckler into the dirt, the Bastard of Nightsong crowing for his next opponent.

They had gone several rounds with the knights of the Stormlands. A more martial group Steffon had never met; fighting was in their veins, and every knight took great pleasure in a good battle. Little wonder his father had so enjoyed fighting.

Uncle Renly was in King’s Landing, having left them after a fortnight. Steff and Joff had seized the opportunity, cozying up to the martial Stormlords. They had flourished under a Baratheon King, and the boys had set out to cement their continued allegiance.

Trade talks were unnecessary, though they had spoken to Lord Estermont. His great-uncle had been eager to bring the new ships to the Stormlands, and Steffon recalled his father approved an improved fleet in the hands of his mother’s family.He had docked a ship in Shipbreaker Bay, and Steffon had marvelled at the multitude of sails. They had conceived the idea behind the ships four years prior, and already he could see it being built across the kingdoms. Lord Estermont had named the ship _Lady Cassana_, in honour of his lost daughter

The man was eager to test the ability of the ships to carry more goods, and a venture to Lys had already been planned.

“Prince Steffon!” Ser Rolland called. His face was covered in pox scars that added to their air of intimidation, though the man was fierce in his loyalty. “Care for another round?”

Laughing, Steffon shrugged off the request. “I fear you might leave little of me, Ser, and I would like to enjoy the planned feast.”

“He’d rather be awake enough to drink,” Joff jeered, and the men broke out into a gale of laughter at the image.

Steffon was every inch a Baratheon – but for his Lannister green eyes – and these men had fought alongside his father, had been loyal to the Baratheons for centuries and the Durrandons before them. He had the look of the old Storm Kings, and he was determined to remind them of their blood loyalty.

“Ah, I’ll have to defend my honour now,” Steffon quipped, striding forward with his blade to face the older knight, “lest everyone think me unable to handle my drink after a fight.”

This was a different song and dance than the wooing of the Crownlands, and Steff thrilled at the opportunity to forge bonds of loyalty with these men.

* * *

He had been feeling restless these past few weeks. Ser Barristan had noticed, coming with them as they travelled the Rose Road to Oldtown. It had been moons since he had left home, since he had seen Cella’s sweet smile or heard Tom’s gale of laughter. Moons since he had felt his mother card her fingers through his hair in their rare moments of harmony, since he had sat and listened to his father boast of his prowess with a hammer. 

Yet the kingdom came before his own desires, before the wishes and vices of his family. Always, Steffon felt the weight of a crown he did not yet bear in truth - not truly, though he did more of the work - and of a sword held steady at his throat. It was fear driving him; fear and love of his siblings that pushed him to always play the game, fear and love for his people that kept him awake some nights, stomach churning at the thought of the multitude of people who would gladly see them toppled from their thrones.

He had felt it, years past in Casterly Rock - the certainty that war was on the horizon. That everything his parents had done would come back to haunt them, would be the hangman waiting for him and Joff and Cella and Tom. Would plunge Westeros into another war that they had been setting themselves up to lose.

Steffon knew war; knew the lengths people would go to for the sake of power and to remove any obstacles, knew how they would fight viciously to cling to life or to respond to all manner of slights - real or imagined. 

He had escaped their retinue, riding ahead for some time. Ser Barristan rode alongside him, shedding his white cloak for a simple black one; fine enough to show his nobility but without any distinct markings. Joff had agreed to stay with the others, Ser Arys ever his shadow, as Steff made his way to an inn. 

“Your Grace, we will have to announce our presence to the Hightower’s,” Ser Barristan said lowly.

“I intend to, though we will ride back to join Joffrey. I’d just like to explore without the title for a day, Ser.”

He was unconvinced, he knew, but Steffon was grateful he did not put up much of a fight. A stable hand took the reigns of their horses, and Steffon made his way through Oldtown.

It was massive; very similar to what he assumed Braavos was like, all winding roads and twisting canals. 

“It doesn’t smell like shit,” Steff noted. That had startled a laugh from Ser Barristan. 

“Nor will King’s Landing,” he replied. 

“How long do you think it will take for years of stench to disappear?” Steff asked curiously. 

“Hopefully before the end of my lifetime, my prince,” Barristan responded amusedly. 

Steff smirked at the thought, walking along the narrow boulevards of the city. They were within the gates, though he could see the Hightower standing sentinel overtop, massive and carved of black stone that maesters insisted was similar to the walls of Old Volantis. There were merchants selling their wares, taverns and ale houses filled to the brim with knights across the Reach, parts of Dorne, the Stormlands and Westerlands, brothels with a stream of customers; it felt just like home. 

Rising above a crest was the Citadel; large with pale brick stone, it lay opposite the Starry Sept, upriver from the denizens of the other faiths. 

_Aegon the Conqueror must have planned King’s Landing after seeing this city_, he thought. 

Steffon could feel the tension from Ser Barristan as they walked toward a bridge that would take them to the Citadel. He would not enter - not without announcing his presence - but he was interested in seeing the wonder of this city. There were cutthroats and thieves all across the city, but their City Watch would be on high alert with a tourney expected. Even more so considering the presence of the Tyrells and their expected presence. 

“The largest collection of books in the world, all housed in this building,” Steff murmured in awe. It was far grander than the Hogwarts library, and he had always thought that to be the pinnacle of knowledge. “Do you think they have copies of _Unnatural History_?”

“Only snippets if you believe the tales,” an airy voice responded.

Jolting, Steffon turned to the young woman stood beside him. He had ignored her presence; the bridge was far too busy for him to gripe about someone stood so close, and he had not expected her to talk to him.

She was beautiful; brown hair in ringlets, wide doe eyes with a glint of something hidden in their depths, she was what he thought a highborn lady to look like. 

“Snippets? That’s a touch disappointing,” Steff said easily, willing his face not to flush. “I had heard tell that there was an entire copy, hidden from Baelor the Blessed in the name of preserving knowledge.” He had not done well with women, though both Father and Uncle Tyrion were keen to introduce him to the wonders of the fairer sex.

“An aspiring maester?” She asked. 

“Not quite, though I’ve learned to have an appreciation for books,” Steff stayed wryly, recalling them many attempts to study.

She laughed lightly, and Steffon was certain he was staring at her in wonder. “You seem to know much of the Citadel, my lady,” he said curiously. 

“My Uncle is a maester. I’ve had some love of knowledge from a young age,” she replied, tucking a lock of her behind her ear.

“Is it true they have ballads of the Kings of Winter?” Steffon blurted out. Flushing, Steff ignored the shuffling movement of Ser Barristan, certain the man was laughing at his plight. Her guards shifted closer, hands drifting to their hilts as his own knight leaned closer. 

She smiled, a mysterious glint in her eye. “Many and more, and tales of the Dawn Age if we believe the words of bragging acolytes.”

Glancing at the Citadel, her words just reaffirmed his want to visit. _What would I see, and what could be found should I have had a cloak_, he wondered. Not for the first time, Steffon lamented the loss of his Invisibility Cloak. 

“Though, personally I’ve always wanted to read _Lives of Four Kings_,” she continued.

“The wooing of Dorne,” he murmured. She sent him a curious look, and Steffon smiled in reminiscence. “My uncle calls it that; four kings all working to have the Dornish brought into the fold.”

“I suppose that is a rather apt name for it,” she laughed.

“My lady, we should be heading back,” one of her guards whispered, glancing suspiciously at the cloaked Barristan. They were unadorned with any sigil, nothing to show their allegiance to any House.

Steffon watched as conflict raged on her face. Turning, he noted that they had been here for some time; Joff would be about an hours ride from the city now, and he and Barristan would have to leave soon to make it a league before the city walls. 

She turned to him with a slight smile, “My family will be looking for me. I shall look out for you at the tourney. Your Grace,” she murmured with a curtsy and a smile sent at the knight.

Stunned, Steffon watched as she swiftly turned, skirts fluttering in the wind as she left them. Looking at Ser Barristan, he noted the amused smile on his face. 

“She recognized me,” he said in surprise.

“You have the look of your father, perhaps she put together what the kingdoms know of you and tales of the King when he was younger.”

Mulling over the thought, Steffon couldn’t shake the thought that there was more to it than that. _Nobody knew he was entering the city early, not a whisper_, he thought.

Steffon absentmindedly followed after Ser Barristan as he led them to their horses. There was something oddly familiar about her, as if he had seen her face before. For the life of him, Steffon could not recall where they might have met.

There were many daughters of the Reach – an abundance of highborn ladies – but he couldn’t pinpoint which family she was from. As they rode hard to their encampment, Steffon continued to think about the girl with the brown eyes.

He had been lead to his tent, a bath brought in so that he might make himself presentable. His armour was on a table next to the bed, brand new pieces made for him and Joff to enter the tourney; they had ordered identical armour, black plate gleaming in addition to the smoky grey plate with the Baratheon standard Uncle Tyrion had gifted them. Walking out, he saw as the younger prince was assisting the servants with their belongings, resplendent in a gold doublet with the crowned stag. He had wanted to wear a black doublet, but the last thing they needed was someone remarking on a prince wearing bastard colours.

“You seem preoccupied,” Joff stated as they prepared to ride out. Ser Barristan and Ser Arys flanked them, a score of knights from King’s Landing accompanied as well as a series of knights from the Stormlands that had joined their retinue.

“Just thinking about something I saw,” Steff responded quietly. They were about an hours ride from Oldtown, and Steffon and Joffrey spent that time planning their foray into the tourney. They would both join the joust, and he knew Joff was eager to test his mettle in the melee as a mystery knight. They would have to keep the Kingsguard preoccupied so they would not throw a fit over their charges entering such a dangerous competition.

They couldn’t understand the necessity behind their actions; they were entering the stronghold of Targaryen loyalists, of people who had bent the knee last, and with that sword held ever closer, Steff was determined to show them that their princes were not to be overlooked.

* * *

The Hightower grew taller as they neared the city walls, and Steffon laughed at the look of astonishment on Joffrey’s face. “It has to be taller than the Rock,” Joff breathed.

Laughing, Steffon straightened in his saddle, removing dust from his shoulders absentmindedly. Scrutinizing his brother, Steffon laughed when Joffrey rolled his eyes with an exaggerated “clean enough for your sensibilities, your grace?

“Aye, though I wonder how you’ll fare under the eyes of dozens of ladies.”

Seeing the haughty smirk the blond wore, Steffon laughed as he dug his heels into the flank of his horse, the two of them riding just in front of the Kingsguard.

The streets of Oldtown were crowded, scouts having spotted their standard and informed the watch. Steffon watched as the people of the city lined the streets, children waving from the arms of their mothers, countless flowers thrown in the air. He and Joff smiled in return, waving at those whose eye they caught and stopping every so often to bless any children passed their way.

It took them the better part of an hour to make it across to Battle Isle, the Hightower looming over their heads.

Guards bowed their heads as he and Joff rode on, entering the courtyard to the sight of House Hightower and their guests stood outside. The lesser nobles were lined up behind and around the outskirts as their retinue pulled ahead. Banners were arrayed all across, showing the Tyrell Rose and other houses of the Reach.

A stable boy came dashing forward, taking control of the reins of Twitch as he warned him, “He’s a bit excitable so take care. A bowl of water and some hay for now, and he’ll need to be rubbed down.” The boy bowed with a muttered “Your Grace,” before Steffon turned to greet their hosts.

“Prince Steffon, Prince Joffrey. Welcome to the Hightower,” Lord Leyton said with a slight bow.

Smiling, Steffon strode forward as the introductions were made. Lord Leyton had seemingly been shut up in his tower for the past decade, and Steffon hid his surprise at seeing the man walking about, as if he had never stopped running Oldtown. “My wife, Lady Rhea. My heir Ser Baelor and his wife Lady Rhonda.” Steffon and Joffrey smiled charmingly, kissing the hands of the ladies they were introduced to.

“Of course, House Tyrell is also in attendance. My goodson Mace and daughter Alerie,” he said. Steffon bowed and placed a kiss on Lady Alerie’s knuckles and took Lord Mace’s greetings with good grace. Turning to the other Tyrells, all breath left him at the sight of the woman standing next to the old crone he assumed was the Queen of Thorns.

_Seven hells_, he thought.

Joffrey was busy greeting the Lady Tyrell, and Steffon nearly missed the sharp appraising look from the old woman.

“Lady Olenna,” he said with a slight smile. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Sharp eyes took him in, and Steffon ruthlessly tamped down on his nervousness.

“Yes, I suppose it is, Prince Steffon.”

Glancing between the two of them she said brusquely, “well, you certainly take after your parents.”

Joffrey’s hand flexed slightly, and Steffon shifted with a smile on his face as he prayed they younger boy did not react.

“Our granddaughter, Margaery,” Lord Leyton introduced.

Bowing, Steffon lightly gripped her hand before he placed a kiss on her knuckles. He was being too obvious; he knew that even without the amused looks Lady Olenna and Joffrey were sending him. Margaery Tyrell was a vision of beauty, and if their conversation on the bridge held true she was far more intelligent.

“Lady Margaery,” he murmured, eyes piercing hers. She responded as she had on the bridge, and Steffon could not keep his mind off her as they introduced him to the rest of the Tyrells and Uncle Renly stepped forward to greet them smirk in place, nor did he when they were shown to their rooms.

Dressing in a fine doublet of cloth-of-gold, Steff ran a brush through his hair, keeping the raven curls neat. A smirking Joffrey entered his room, the boy lounging on a chair as he smugly said, “Your attentions have been wandering for hours, brother, and yet it seems all you needed was a rose to keep you occupied.”

Sending the younger boy a glower, Joff merely laughed in response. “Fear not, brother mine, I shall ensure you have time to woo your lady.”

Grumbling, he threw a pillow at Joff, “She’s not my lady.”

“Not yet!” He said gleefully.

Seven save him but he loathed younger siblings at times like this.

“Let’s go,” Steffon sniffed, and Joff laughingly followed after him.

A servant escorted them to the entrance of the Great Hall, the smoothed walls of the Hightower gleaming in the light. The inner walls were also black, tapestries hanging at intervals of ages past. Steffon itched to look through them, seeing bronze crowns and weapons of the First Men.

The Hightower’s were waiting for them, Lord Leyton and Lady Rhea along with his children. The Tyrells were also there, and Steffon found himself escorting old Lady Tyrell as the highest ranked Lady.

“My lady, I believe we are to be partners,” he said.

“A fine honour I’m sure,” Lady Olenna returned.

They were lead inside, scores of nobles on their feet as Steffon escorted Olenna to the high table. He was seated between Lord Leyton and Lady Olenna, Ser Barristan taking up his post behind him. They were feasted for hours, platters of different foods from across the world making it to their plates. Steffon forced himself to relax, aware of the young lady seated at the table below theirs, yet careful not to arouse the curiosity of the gathered nobles.

“Will you be jousting, Prince Steffon?” Mace asked.

“That is the goal, my lord,” he smiled. “Though it seems I shall have to defend against my uncle.”

“Yes, Lord Renly has jousted in a few tourneys here in the Reach, as has our Loras,” Mace boasted.

Steffon regretted the distance placed between himself and Joff, for he wanted to kick him in admonishment at seeing the look on his face.

“Yes, yes. They will joust and lose their wits in the attempt,” the Queen of Thorns quipped. Gazing at him with sharp eyes she stated, “You will be another prince to enter the halls of the citadel.”

“Yes, though I’ve no desire to forswear myself to the order,” he jested.

“Not keen on losing out on the pleasures of the flesh I gather,” she responded shrewdly.

Swallowing against the sudden lump in his throat, Steffon ignored the spluttering of Mace Tyrell as he looked at his formidable mother. Joffrey was openly smirking, mouth hidden by his goblet of wine though Steff recognized the mirth in his eyes.

“Far too many things require my attention for me to dedicate my life to their chains, though yes, I imagine celibacy would be a rather unfortunate path for one in my position.”

Her eyes were gleaming in interest, and a bit of amusement if he wasn’t mistaken.

This was like to be the only chance they had at seeing them without the presence of the king and queen. He was not yet betrothed, though the entire kingdom assumed the honour would go to Sansa Stark. This was their chance at gaining a hold on the crown, and Steffon was more than willing to allow them to play the game.

When the dancing began, Steffon asked Lady Rhea for a turn around the floor as Joffrey escorted Lady Alerie. Always, he remained aware of the Rose of Highgarden in his peripheral, even when he spun around the floor with her mother.

Finally, after waiting a few dances, Steffon approached her for a turn. She was surrounded by a gaggle of ladies, some of whom shared her features, and he was uncomfortably reminded of the Yule Ball. _Why must women travel in groups_, he thought.

“Lady Margaery,” he bowed with a hand outstretched, “May I have the honour of a dance.”

She merely smiled, eyes shining with a secret, and took his hand. Her ladies began to giggle and whisper as they walked away, and Steff valiantly ignored Joff’s smirk. 

She felt wonderful in his arms, and for the first time, Steffon had to actively work to remember the steps to the dance.

“You seem flustered, my prince,” she said coyly.

Miraculously, he managed not to flush. “A smidge embarrassed if we are being honest,” Steff said.

“Oh?” They spun in a circle, her eyebrow arched in amusement at his misfortune.

“Quite, I had thought you to recognize me based on my charm but alas, my uncle’s presence has foiled my plans,” he said dramatically.

Smiling mischievously she replied, “Naturally. One mustn’t forget where your dashing looks came from.”

Amused, Steffon searched the hall for Renly and found him stood next to Ser Loras. They did look alike, though his Uncle was far more prone to extensive grooming habits.

“We didn’t get a chance to finish our conversation,” Steff stated.

“No, quite unfortunate. It seems we must save that for another time,” Margaery replied.

The last notes of the song played across the hall, the musicians shifting into another tune, one slower and requiring closer contact.

_Fuck it_, he thought.

Before she had a chance to curtsy, Steffon tugged lightly on her hand, pulling her closer as he swiftly stepped into the next dance. Surprise danced across her face, and there were bound to be tongues wagging. They were close, far closer than their earlier bout and he did not have to wait to speak.

“I think you’ve rather scandalized the crowd, Your Grace,” Margaery said lightly.

“Only your grandmother,” Steffon quipped, “though she’ll likely recover much faster than any other.”

She laughed at his words, mirth visible in her eyes, and he felt a surge of accomplishment. “Oh I don’t think my dear grandmama has been scandalized in quite some time,” she grinned.

Smiling in amusement, Steffon thought on the sharp-witted lady he had met. “No, I daresay she has not.”

They danced around a drunk couple, Steffon leading her to the centre of the hall under the eyes of her family. “Aegon the Unlikely,” she suddenly said.

Blinking in slight surprise, Steffon looked down at the lady. “What of him?”

“His treatises on the conditions of the smallfolk are kept in the citadel,” she murmured as if sharing a great secret.

“A full accounting?” He asked curiously.

Haughtily tossing her hair, “I should think a prince of the realm working for change would be able to see such work during his visit.”

“Naturally,” Steff drawled, “for what greater purpose is there than to improve the lives of the people.”

Brown eyes trapped him in a serious gaze, altogether more discerning than what he had expected. “Even in the Reach we have heard of the improvements made to King’s Landing. Quite the feat,” she murmured. 

“Not enough,” he responded. “Not nearly so, though there have been increasing changes.”

They had come to the end of their dance, and Steffon did not dare to push his luck with a third one.

“My lady,” he murmured, placing a light kiss on her knuckles.

“Prince Steffon,” she curtsied, an impish smile on her face. “I look forward to seeing whether your skills in battle measure up to your legend.”

Seating himself next to Joff, Steffon ignored the younger boy’s gleeful smirk as his eyes tracked Margaery Tyrell. “Don’t drink too much brother dearest,” he muttered lowly, “we’ve a melee to win.”

* * *

The thrill of battle sparked through him, like calling to like.

Ser Barristan had been disapproving when he saw the pitch black armour they intended to wear to the melee, but he held his tongue and allowed them to compete. Their father would hear about this stunt, but Robert Baratheon was like to congratulate them and grumble about having missed out.

There were forty of them, knights of the Reach and Stormlands, some from Dorne and the Westerlands, and Steffon stuck close to Joff as they eagerly crossed swords with them. Having two mystery knights was uncommon, both dressed in identical armour, and Steffon was certain their hosts knew exactly who was beneath the helms.

Parrying a blow meant for his head, Steffon feinted right before punishing the man with a hard blow to the side of his knee. A quick knock from his pommel ensured he stayed down.

As much as he gained some enjoyment from playing the game, in spite of taking well to his duties, Steffon was at his core a warrior. He had enjoyed the thrill of battle as Harry Potter, and as the son of Robert Baratheon thrived with a sword in hand – exhilarating in the rush he received from fighting as if his life depended on it.

He and Joff stood back to back, hammering at any who sought to eliminate them. _Feet firm but steady, follow the swing_, he recalled, Ser Barristan’s voice ringing through his head as he parried a blow, foot kicking out to trip the knight from House Florent. Joff took advantage of the falling knight, his sword swinging with a punishing hit to his helmet.

Melees were dirty things his father had told him, and Robert Baratheon had gloried in crushing armour with a dulled hammer. Their tourney swords were blunted and heavy, but Steffon did not need a sharp edge to force a yield.

Vaguely, he felt Joff move away from him, two men drawing Steffon to a corner, and he backed away, luring them in. At the sight of a flashing sword, Steff caught the glancing blow, jerking left to force the man’s hand into the ground. A hard kick saw him fall into his comrade, and three hard raps to the head saw the Tarly knight unconscious while his friend yielded.

They were down to ten now; he had taken down three, Joff another three plus the Florent they had fought together. His armour was stained with mud, sweat trickling down his neck as he heaved in exertion.

They came at each other with a clash of steel, deflecting a blow into the ground as he jerked his elbow into the knight’s arm, pommel to the head taking care of him. Joff had quickly taken care of another, and a knight wearing green plate with two golden roses lunged at him.

_Garlan Tyrell_, he recalled. He was fast, sword flashing in a dance of thrusts and parries, blows hard but glancing off Steff’s shield. Steffon was broader than Garlan Tyrell, and he used the advantage of his size to press forward, swinging hard with an overhead strike followed a sweeping blow across his middle.

They had gone back and forth for some time, Ser Garlan keeping him level before Steffon suddenly pressed forward. He saw the flash in his eyes, the man not expecting the bout of quickness from him, and it was over with a quick riposte that saw his sword at the knight’s throat.

“Yield!” he called.

Ser Garlan yielded good-naturedly, the man rising to clasp forearms with him. “Well fought, Ser,” he said, making his way off the field.

Standing back, Steffon watched as Joff finished off his opponent. It was just the two of them left, and the crowd was roaring their approval at the sight of two unknown knights.

Seeing Joffrey drop his shield, Steffon barked out a laugh, dropping his in return. He stuck his blade in the mud, hands lifting his helm. The crowd grew louder at the sight of their prince, roars deafening when Joffrey followed suit and removed his helmet.

“Are you sure you want to do this little brother?” Steffon taunted, a grin on his face.

Joffrey merely picked up his sword, blade clanging against the shield as he gave him a shit-eating grin.

They circled one another, green eyes coolly assessing the other’s form though they would not find much wrong.

As one they lunged forward, the sweet song of steel ringing throughout the field as they traded blows. Steffon’s heart was pounding, the sound of blood rushing in his ears as he parried Joff’s blow.

It was as if they were back in the sparring grounds of the Red Keep; Ser Barristan watching on in the distance as his two squires squared off joyfully.

Joff came at him with a quick swipe, Steffon skidding back and slamming the flat of his blade against Joff’s arm. His sword rattled, jarring his brother’s arm but he did not drop his blade.

Joff was the quicker swordsman, and for all the work Steff had done to balance his speed with his size, his brother used his speed to brutal effect.

A jab found his thigh, Joff’s sword surging up to smack hard against his right elbow. Gritting his teeth at the pain – _there would be a fresh bruise there_ – Steffon swung quickly, Joff parrying his blows as he overwhelmed him. Left, right, left, duck, swipe; they continued to trade blows back and forth, a motley of bruises created as each landed a hit yet refused to give in.

Finally, an overhead swing was caught by Joff’s sword and Steff grinned as he twisted his wrist to force Joff to drop his blade.

“Yield, brother,” Steff panted, sword held at Joffrey’s throat. Grumbling, the boy nodded.

“I’ll get you next time,” Joff promised.

Laughing, Steffon slung an arm across his shoulders. The crowd was roaring their approval, Steffon raising a hand to wave as they stood their, sweat plastering their hair to their heads. Ser Barristan was making his way to them, a proud look on the old knight’s face dispelling the air of disapproval he had carried.

“Smile, Joff,” Steffon muttered. “We’ve done what we set out to accomplish.”

A smug smirk was on Joff’s face, and Steffon laughed as the boy sent a wink at the box holding their uncle.

* * *

Steffon had tossed and turned in his sleep all night, pride mingled with worry keeping him awake as he thought on his younger brother.

Joffrey had stood vigil in the Starry Sept, utterly surprised when Ser Barristan had ordered him to prepare for his knightly vows.

_“Ser?” Joff had asked in surprise. There was dirt and dust on his face, mud on the shining plate of his armour and utter bafflement as he stared at Ser Barristan, mouth agape._

_The old knight merely smiled kindly, a tinge of amusement on his face. “There are several ways to earn your spurs, my prince. Either through the valour of battle, or when you knightly master deems you ready.”_

_“Have I earned it?” Joff asked. There was a flash of vulnerability in his eyes, something Steff thought others would never see. Ser Barristan grew serious, a muted look of pride on his face._

_“I have watched and trained the both of you since you were five. You have always put forth the greatest effort in your training, Prince Joffrey. In the Crownlands, you acted with courage, holding true to the vows of a knight of the realm and performed admirably in battle. That alone would have seen many clamour to knight you, and indeed Ser Arys spoke in your favour.”_

_Seeing Joff open his mouth, Ser Barristan held a hand to keep him quiet. Swallowing his instincts, Joffrey held still as the knight continued. “Your refusal to be knighted on account of your deeds spoke well of you, and yet you continued to train hard in the field. Never have you complained of any task we set before you, nor did you allow your emotions to cloud your judgement. I would not knight you if I deemed you unready, Prince Joffrey, but there are few that can wield a blade with as much skill as you and fewer still who remember what it means to be a knight.”_

_“I did not win the melee,” Joff countered._

_“You lost only to your brother, and for two boys of five and ten and three and ten that is an admirable feat,” the knight returned. Ser Barristan was upset that they had entered the melee at all, mystery knights be damned, but he would not allow his anger to darken Joffrey’s achievement._

_Smirking, Steffon merely watched as an array of emotions danced across Joffrey’s face. There was pride in his abilities, joy at the praise from his mentor, and determination._

_Nodding, Joffrey smiled sincerely at Ser Barristan, and the old knight merely smiled and stood back as Steffon rushed forward._

_“Ah my little brother, the youngest knight the kingdoms has seen in quite some time,” Steffon swooned. Joffrey rolled his eyes at his antics, though Steff saw the smile he could not hide._

_“You are not upset?” Joff asked lowly, green eyes staring intently into his. There was fear lurking behind the joy, and Steffon pulled him into a tight hug, uncaring of the knights surrounding them or that they were both clad in heavy armour._

_“I am fit to burst with pride Joff,” he responded quietly. “Truly brother, I cannot think of another who has earned it as you have. Besides,” Steff added lightly, “how much of a fuss do you think Tommen will make so that he may join the two of us?”_

_“Don’t tell me you intend to become a braggart?” Joff replied, a small smile tugging on his lips._

_“Naturally,” Steff exaggerated. “I needs must let the entire realm know that my brother has done what many have not.”_

_Turning to Ser Barristan, Joffrey said, “I suppose we must send a raven to King’s Landing informing them so that they might prepare.”_

_“Prepare?” Steff asked._

_Seeing the look of confusion on Joff’s face, Steffon slung an arm across his shoulders. “Little brother, Aegon the Conqueror was crowned in Oldtown. What better story than to have the second prince of the Baratheon dynasty, the youngest knight since Daemon Blackfyre, knighted here.”_

_Joffrey turned to him in slight surprise, and Steffon was gratified to see the flash of understanding in his eyes._

_“Can you imagine the look on Uncle Renly’s face?”_

_Joffrey laughed loudly in response as they walked out of the tent to change._

There was no throne room to knight the younger boy, but the septons were willing to allow Joff’s knighting to be done there.

The walls were black marble, smooth and undisturbed, with arched windows that let in beams of light. Joff knelt before the statue of the Warrior, the sun shining gloriously on his golden head. His armour had been polished to a shine, smoky grey plate gleaming with the black stag and golden crown, his helmet placed on the floor next to him.

He made quite the vision – the image of the Warrior he heard them whisper – and Steffon watched on in pride as his younger brother was honoured for his achievements. Tyrell, Hightower, Tarly, Redwyne, Rowan. Loyal Targaryen men all of them; there was a knight or lord present from each House to watch Barristan the Bold knight Joff.

Ser Barristan unsheathed his sword, and the nobles of the Reach looked on as he placed the blade flat on Joff’s shoulder. “Joffrey of the House Baratheon, in the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maiden I charge you to protect all women.”

Joff’s green eyes were gleaming in triumph, a mirror of the look in his own as they locked eyes.

“Arise as Ser Joffrey Baratheon, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms,” Ser Barristan intoned. There was applause from those gathered for the event, and Steffon made his way to congratulate his brother once more. Joffrey and Ser Barristan had clasped forearms, and he could see the younger boy preening at the approval of the knight he looked up to.

“Well done little brother,” he murmured, clasping hands with him as he pulled Joff forward. Gaze flicking across the room, he murmured with a laugh, “They certainly did not expect this.”

Joffrey flashed a smile at him, genuine and warm before his face closed off.

“Well deserved, nephew,” Uncle Renly laughed. “Robert will be beaming in pride at the news. Two sons knighted younger than all others.”

Uncle Renly was smiling as Joffrey accepted his compliments, though there was a flash of disquiet in his gaze. Ser Loras stood behind him, a more sullen look that quickly transformed into a polite smile as he stepped forward with his own compliments.

Renly was more rose than stag these days, and Steffon was glad of the opportunity to flaunt their prowess in their face. Highgarden might have their grip on Storm’s End, but they would have to be fools to seek to replace the queen with such able heirs.

* * *

_Dark wings, dark words_.

The raven had come in the early hours. Steffon and Joffrey had been in the midst of a spar with Ser Garlan. The second Tyrell son had proven a better sword than his brother, and when watching him fight multiple men off and with his performance in the melee, Steffon and Joffrey had been determined to trade blows with him.

It had been exhilarating, as all fights of pure skill were, the two boys becoming fast friends with the older swordsman.

They were in the middle of one such free spar under the watchful eyes of Ser Barristan when a page came running forward.

“Your Grace, Your Grace!” the boy panted.

A quick twist of his wrist followed by the flat of his blade to Ser Garlan’s helmet put the duel to a halt, Steffon raising his shield to stop Joff’s strike. Sticking the sword into the mud and dropping his shield, Steffon removed his helmet, hair plastered to his face with sweat.

Frowning at the young boy he asked, “What is the matter?”

“A raven, my princes. Lord Hightower has asked me to call you with haste.”

Sharing a troubled glance with Joff, Steffon nodded at the page and began the trek into the castle proper. He kept his armour on, as did Joff, the clinking movements of their steps and those of the Kingsguard following them on their journey.

The page led them to Lord Hightower’s solar where he stood waiting for them with Lord Tyrell and Lady Olenna. The solar was surprisingly crafted of the same black stone that formed the base of the Hightower. Grey and white veins shot throughout the room, giving it a cool feel topped only by the red and gold furniture.

Lord Leyton stood behind his desk, the maester next to him and Lord Tyrell and Lady Olenna stood across. The maester held a scroll that was given to Ser Barristan, the knight confirming that the seal was unbroken. “A raven from King’s Landing, Prince Steffon.”

Unfurling the small parchment as the others looked on, Steffon shifted to allow Joff to see what was written. It was the small precise writing of Uncle Tyrion, and Steffon felt a sense of foreboding at the words.

_Nephews,_

_The Lord Hand has recently passed. You must make haste for King’s Landing. The King wishes to travel North to Winterfell and requires your presence._

_Tyrion Lannister_

He felt Joffrey stiffen in surprise and Steffon handed the scroll to Ser Barristan to tuck away as he looked at the gathered people with cool green eyes.

“Lord Hightower, I thank you for your hospitality. It seems my brother and I must return to King’s Landing.”

Surprise flashed across their faces, a glint in the eyes of Lady Olenna as her son asked, “Nothing is the matter my princes, surely?”

Weighing his options, Steff decided that such news was to be known soon. _If they don’t already know_, he thought darkly.

“Lord Arryn has passed,” Steffon admitted.

They were surprised, he could tell. Jon Arryn had been old but the man had not seemed too old, still moving about sprightly for one such as him. Even Pycelle was still hobbling around.

There was a feeling of dread pulsing through him, a sense of loss. Not at Jon Arryn but at the situation around them.

The man could have died of old age for all Steffon knew, but he had spent far too many years bickering back and forth with the old Hand over the direction the kingdoms should move to believe the man would simply give in to age.

“We will have to leave immediately,” Joffrey said, lips pursed and a blank expression on his face. Lord Tyrell puffed up but a quick rap from his mother’s cane kept him quiet.

“Yes, of course. I shall have a groom see to your horses. There is a ship leaving for King’s Landing soon.”

“That won’t be necessary, Lord Hightower. I believe we will keep to the road. If you will excuse me,” Steffon smiled politely. Their hosts bowed before Steff turned quickly and made his way to his rooms. Ser Barristan and Ser Arys followed after, and Steffon leaned toward Joffrey to mutter quietly, “Uncle Renly will need to be informed.”

Grimacing, the boy gave a swift nod before calling the guards at the end of their hall. Ser Edgar Staedmon was one of Renly’s household knights, and Steffon saw him speak quietly to Joff before he took off.

Ser Barristan stood posted outside his door, and it was only that knowledge which kept Steff from causing a ruckus at the sight that met him inside his bedchamber. Seated in a chair near his bed was a woman, older than his mother, with wild silver-blonde hair and eyes of blue fire. Warily, Steffon placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, mindful of the dagger strapped to his thigh.

“My Lady?”

“Harry Potter,” she whispered.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Steffon was moving before he noticed, hand at the woman’s throat as he pulled his dagger. His skin tingled on contact with her, and he tightened his hand in response.

She merely smiled, the mad woman, and Steffon had the feeling he knew exactly who had taken to his room. _The Mad Maid of Hightower_, he thought. It fit, her looks akin to those of her family, and Steffon was even more wary for what he knew of her.

“How do you know that name?” Steffon demanded. He had spent years as Steffon Baratheon, as the prince, that the life of Harry Potter was naught more than a lesson to be learned from.

Malora Hightower merely smiled, blue eyes glinting in the dim light of the candle. His hand at her throat did not bother her, nor did she seem worried over the dagger held to her chest.

“The Chosen One,” she whispered, a secret dancing in her eyes.

Furiously, Steffon shoved her into the chair, stepping back as he coldly assessed her. She sat there quietly, hands folded in her lap as she stared at him.

“What do you want?” he coldly asked.

Tilting her head, Malora smiled before pointing at the candle. It was not the usual one he had expected; instead this one was made of glass, the light flickering dimly in comparison to a normal candle. Swallowing suddenly, Steffon jerked back in surprise, mind racing.

“The candles have flared only once before, in 284 during a storm. Silent for a hundred years but that the birth of a child should relight them.”

“It’s flickering,” he said flatly.

“Mmm, not quite at full strength are you. That is to be expected,” Malora told him, rising from her chair. She picked up the candle, and turned to him, the flicker of red flames creating shadows in her gaze.

“Look into it,” she ordered, and for once in his life Steffon could not directly ignore an order. He was curious to know what it might show him, his hand twitching as he felt the tingle of magic.

It was stronger now, stronger than it had been since he had been in the forest; it was both terrifying and wondrous, the thought that he might someday have access to his magic.

The candle held a pale wisp of flame, the colours cycling from white to yellow to red.

Staring into the flames Steffon saw bodies; a river filled with blood, the bodies piled alongside the banks, a man in black with a sword of flames, a woman heavy with child kneeling in a sept, a green stag broken beneath a wall, a castle burning, a city on fire, the sea frothing in anger.

The flames flickered once more, the visions changing. There was a blue winter rose growing in a chink on the wall, a dog barking at a giant before it was burnt, a wolf howling in pain, a pride of lions growling at a bird, the crowned stag surrounded by flames. Overheard was the shadow of a dragon, wings covering leagues as it spat fire at another dragon, black and red flames intermingling.

They fell into sudden darkness as a chill spread throughout. Staring back at him from the black flames was a creature of ice, blue eyes gazing malevolently at him.

Flinching back, Steffon glared wildly at Malora, heart pounding furiously at what he was shown.

“What did you see?” She asked, eyes wide and piercing. “What did it show you?”

“War,” Steffon croaked.

* * *

They had made it to King’s Landing in three weeks, pushing their horses as hard as they could. Steffon had urged them to press forward, eager to put some distance between himself and The Hightower. A small part of him mourned the loss of time to visit the Citadel, but Malora Hightower’s antics had made him fearful of the candles igniting in his presence.

The city was still as boisterous as ever, but the keep seemed oddly tense. A sense of foreboding filled Steffon, even as they greeted the king and offered their condolences on the loss of his foster father.

Uncle Tyrion had informed them of their immediate departure. The king had waited long enough for their return and he meant to travel immediately to Winterfell to make his old friend hand.

He was in his bedchamber, the maids having taken the last of his clothes with him for the journey North. Steffon was strapping a dagger to his leg, gathering any parchment that he could not afford to leave behind in the keep when Joffrey stormed into his room, Myrcella following after him.

“Joff, what—”

“Tell me it wasn’t you,” the younger boy demanded.

Taken aback, Steffon blinked owlishly at him. “What?” he hissed.

“Cella, tell him what you told me,” Joff ordered coldly.

Myrcella looked apprehensive as she glanced between her furious brothers. “Lord Arryn was with Gendry,” Myrcella said quietly.

“How the hell do you know Gendry?” Steff demanded.

Rolling her eyes, Myrcella scowled at the two of them. “You are not the only one exploring the city brother, don’t be such a hypocrite,” she added seeing him open his mouth.

“What did he want with Gendry?” Steffon asked, heart racing.

“He was asking about his mother,” Cella admitted, a peculiar glint in her eyes. “Gendry told me his mother had yellow hair.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Steffon glowered at Joffrey. “I was with you for moons, brother, and unknowing of this information.”

“Why does he care about Gendry’s mother? You’re hiding something, ever since Casterly Rock,” Cella accused them.

A sheepish look on his face, Joff turned to her, “Cella, we aren’t _hiding_ anyth—”

“Don’t take me for a fool, Joff, it doesn’t suit you,” she interrupted scathingly. Turning to glower at Steffon, she continued, “Lord Arryn has been watching Tommen and I for the last half year and spent some of that time in the city speaking with Gendry and one of the whores.”

“How do you know all this?” Joffrey asked bewildered.

Sniffing in disdain, she said primly “I’ve made friends in the city.”

They were silent for some time, the three simply staring at one another. He did not want to tell Myrcella, though she was of an age with Joff when he first discovered the truth of his birth. Judging by the look she gave them, Cella was close to figuring it out herself, had most likely realized what they were hiding but could not bring herself to acknowledge it as truth.

“You should finish packing, sister,” Steffon said quietly. Seeing her about to protest he hurriedly added, “Not today, but we will tell you everything you need to know.”

Pursing her lips, Myrcella nodded in agreement. “I can’t know what to watch out for if you insist on keeping me in the dark,” she warned, leaving them with those parting words.

As soon as he was certain Cella had left the room, Steffon smacked Joff upside the head. “You could learn to be a bit more discreet,” he hissed.

“I panicked,” Joff muttered, hand rubbing his head.

“Obviously,” Steff drawled.

“Tell me you are not considering telling her the truth,” Joff begged.

_Forewarned is forearmed_, Steffon thought darkly. Cella was right; they were busy gathering alliances, and she and Tommen had suffered for their lack of planning.

“I do not like it, but it is something we may have to do,” Steffon murmured. “She’s right, we left her and Tommen vulnerable while we played at being princes.”

“We were seeking alliances _in case something like this happened_,” Joff hissed.

Whatever response he had was cut off abruptly by the sudden presence of Ser Arys, a page accompanying him.

“My Princes, a small council meeting has been called. The King requires your presence,” Ser Arys told them.

Dread curled in his stomach, and Steffon exchanged a worried glance with Joffrey.

They hurried through the keep to the council room, the king for once in attendance. Uncle Stannis was absent, and from what Steffon had learned the man had thrown a fit at the thought of Ned Stark becoming the next hand, taking his ship and his men and sequestering himself in Dragonstone.

“Father,” Steffon greeted warily. The air in the room was tense, the council all with varying expressions of disquiet. Ser Barristan looked grave, face pinched in worry, and the king was red-faced and pacing furiously.

“Tell them,” he ordered Lord Varys.

The eunuch turned to the two of them, a worried expression that Steffon could not tell the sincerity of. “Daenerys Targaryen is pregnant with the son of a Dothraki Khal,” he told them.

Stunned, Steffon glanced at the council to see if this was a jest. _This is the last thing we need_, he thought in dismay.

“When did she marry?” Joffrey asked.

“The news came shortly after your departure for Storm’s End,” Littlefinger piped up. Five moons, they had kept this knowledge quiet.

Face tightening, Steffon noted the look on his father’s face.

“I WANT HER DEAD!” Robert roared, fist slamming into the table. Fat he may be, but the king still had a certain strength to him, and the lords stared warily at his father.

“Your Grace—” interjected Steffon.

“NO,” he spat. “Her and that blasted child and her fool brother.” Staring at Varys in anger, the king ordered, “Send someone to take care of them. I’ll not suffer more dragonspawn.”

“It will be done, Your Grace,” Varys bowed.

The king stormed out of the room, Ser Barristan following after him. Slowly, the council dispersed until it was only Steffon, Joffrey and Varys left in the room.

“How likely is it that they are to turn their attention here?” Steffon asked the eunuch.

“The Dothraki do not like the sea, my prince, considering it a poison.”

“They’ll never make the crossing,” Joffrey stated.

“Not of their own volition perhaps, but a child with a kingdom to conquer is a different motivator,” Steffon countered, mind whirring with possibilities.

“A band of savages brought to Westeros,” Joff scoffed.

“Savages with the backing of a princess,” Varys said. Staring at the eunuch, Steffon gestured for him to speak. “Power lies where men believe it to, no more than that. The sea may be a poison, but there is great power in the Targaryen name.”

“Enough power to bring them over,” Steffon murmured. He knew well the power of the Targaryen name and blood, his father’s claim had hinged on that relation, else Ned Stark could have claimed the throne on account of the Northerners grievance.

But killing a child did not sit well with him. He was not his father to wish them all dead, nor his grandfather to do the necessary deed. He couldn’t outright order their deaths, but allowing Daenerys Targaryen to live could see his head on a spike.

_I swore to do whatever was necessary to keep them safe_, he reminded himself, glancing at Joffrey.

“Lord Varys, have your men target the Dothraki Khal,” Steffon ordered. The eunuch raised an eyebrow in surprise as he agreed, bowing as he exited.

“Her husband?” Joff questioned once they were alone.

“The Dothraki hold strength in high regard,” Steffon recalled from Uncle Tyrion’s ramblings. “A khal who dies with only an infant child places them in danger. His people will turn on her as they would never bow to a babe.”

It left a sour feeling in his mouth, and Steffon ruthlessly crushed any doubt. He could not afford to second-guess himself in this, not when Joff and Cella and Tom’s very lives depended on him.

“Dragons to the East and an enemy in our midst holding a knife to our balls. Tell me, brother, who else shall plot our deaths?”

“Many and more,” Steffon replied, “for who plots and plays the game other than high lords in their castles. I’ve no intention of granting that request.”

“And if the Targaryens should turn their gaze westward?” Joff asked quietly, a somber look on his face.

“We throw them back into the Rhoyne and hope the river will succeed where the Doom failed.”

“War will come to Westeros,” Joff pointed out.

“Aye,” Steff responded just as quietly, “and I wil cling to this throne if I must, should the alternative be our heads on a spike. Doubtless the Targaryens would see us buried and forgotten.”

“Oh good, I quite enjoy living,” Joff quipped darkly.

“You’ll have to bind several kingdoms to you by marriage,” Steffon stated, staring at his brother.

It took Joffrey a moment to realize what he had said, lost as he was in dark thoughts of their potential future. “Marriage?” he asked horrified.

“No need to be so dramatic, brother, not all marriages are like our dear parents,” Steff chided.

“Father is taking the entire family North. He means to get himself a Hand and a Stark bride that he was denied,” Joffrey scoffed. “You of all people should fear the binds of marriage.”

“I am aware,” he drawled.

“Sansa Stark comes with three kingdoms tied to her by blood,” Joff noted.

“Kingdoms I would see tied to you instead,” Steffon murmured, eyes dark with worry.

“Insulting the North with their daughter being a mere princess instead of queen? That is not like you, Steff.”

“The last thing we need is ambitious Roses plotting against us,” Steffon said softly. Pulling Joffrey close Steff breathed, “Court her, do what you must to have Sansa Stark wish for a match between yourselves. When you wed her and bed her, the North will be forced to stay their hands and declare any words as baseless rumours.”

Joffrey stared at him solemnly, and stood as close as they were Steffon could see the hint of fear lurking in his gaze.

“We do not know what was discovered, but this stinks of something dangerous.”

“When you play the game of thrones, you either win or die,” Joffrey recited.

“I’ve no intention of allowing either of you to die Joff. I would salt the earth before that came to pass.”


	4. Sequel

Hey all!

This is just a notice for those who requested I update The Storm Prince whenever the sequel was up. Black Lion, Golden Stag is now live and picks up the story from where we ended in late 299.

It will have multiple POVs, which is different and a thing I hope works out as well as I envisioned.

Cheers!


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